


Through the Fog

by Cciarants



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Character Study, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Fog Warriors, Gen, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Past Rape/Non-con, Psychological Trauma, Slavery, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-23
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:08:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 39,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23283016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cciarants/pseuds/Cciarants
Summary: Fenris "escapes" slavery when Danarius leaves him behind in Seheron, but he doesn't feel free. He is afraid to do anything but return to his old life. The fog warriors help him to find a version of himself that exists outside of Danarius until he kills them. Then it's up to Fenris to do that work alone. Friends would be helpful.Basically just exploring pieces of cannon I think are interesting from the perspective that Fenris has to build a version of himself that is compatible with freedom, and that means working through a lot of trauma.The romance piece is coming,  but it's not in the first few chapters.
Comments: 50
Kudos: 40





	1. Escape by Mistake

Fenris weighed their options, examining the fork in the road ahead. There was both an established road that had been marked on their map, and a well- cleared jungle trail that appeared to lead more directly to their destination. The more established road probably held bandits, and certainly at least a few fellow travelers unlikely to be friendly to a magister and his group of guards. However, the larger threat was the roving bands of freedom fighters reverently referred to by Tevinters as "fog warriors." Qunari were scarce in these parts, but fog warriors were plentiful. Travelling the narrow and less predictable side paths could make them easy prey for the locals who knew the landscape best, and the group of Tevinters that Fenris' master traveled with were not well equipped to move quickly and quietly in unfamiliar settings. "It would be the more sensible to take the more traveled path." Fenris muttered to himself.

"Boy," The interruption in Fenris' thoughts came from Alvio, the captain of the mercenary guild his master had hired. Fenris turned to acknowledge him respectfully. While he did not belong to the mercenary captain and owed him no response, Fenris knew it was in his best interest to give a basic deference to all free men, "Yes, captain?"

The mercenary captain smirked, "Are you your master's advisor?"

Fenris didn't understand what he meant and chose not to respond, avoiding the capitan's eyes. 

"I thought you were a slave, not the grand vizier! I assume you must be some kind of tactical expert to give such suggestions to your betters," the captain said. He was clearly toying with, Fenris, his posture and expression glib. 

Fenris' cheeks were hot, but he remained silent. He understood now. His suggestion about the direction hadn't been intended to be heard by Alvio or anyone. But then again, it wasn't even Fenris' place to think about such things. All the same, he felt his assessment was true. Fenris tried to dispel his embarrassment. The opinions of some ignorant hired sword should have been of no interest to him. In his time in Seheron, his master had been relying on Fenris more- even praising or rewarding him for his cleverness. Fenris knew he was right and he hoped that Magister Danarius would put the mercenary captain in his place, or at the very least, take Fenris' contribution under advisement. He dared not look to his master for support, but he did hope for it.

Danarius barked a short laugh, "I think I would remember hiring an elven slave as my advisor, Alvio. Be silent, Fenris. Your purpose is to guard, not navigate."

Fenris hung his head to show he had been chastised, real shame washing over him now, "Yes, master." 

At Alvio's suggestion, the group took the jungle pass. "It's a boar trail," Alvio explained inaccurately, "It'll take us the straightest possible path to the coast, and avoid bandits and Qunari troop movements. It's the safest way to get you and your property on a boat back to Minrathos, magister." 

"Well done." The magister said, and with his consent affirmed they pushed onto the narrow trail.

The path made Fenris nervous, while it was not overgrown nor narrow enough to be a boar trail, there were plenty of roots overgrowing the path, and the visibility was poor. Worse, as they traveled longer, the poor terrain seemed to be wearing on the other members of the party. There were 12 of them in total. Four mercenaries, the mercenary captain, two slaves who attended and carried packs, three young altus mages, Fenris, and his master. The mercenaries and slaves were quiet but clearlyworn from hard travel. The captain chatted amicably with the young altus girl, asking her flirtatious questions about the estate she had grown up on. The other two altus mages were less enthused, complaining of tears in robes and stubbed toes and branches whipping carelessly back at them.

Most irritated of all was Fenris' master, who took every opportunity to criticize the slaves for jostling packs, or walking too carelessly or slowly, and Fenris for not keeping close enough for his comfort. Danarius was eager to leave Seheron, and the last few weeks had been particularly harrowing. He and Fenris had gotten into an altercation with a Qunari battalion who had recognized Danarius' distinctive slave from another battle. Worse than recognizing them, the battalion had developed a plan to beat them- or more accurately- to beat Danarius. The Qunari had driven a wedge between Danarius and Fenris, preventing the mage from drawing power from the elf's lyrium. The warriors had concentrated their power on Danarius, while Fenris was confronted by a Qunari Serrabaas and its handler. By the time Fenris had ripped his way through his opponents, Danarius had depleted his mana and all the lyrium he had to spare. He had to drain Fenris of nearly all his power to fend off the warriors long enough for reinforcements to arrive. 

Fenris had been ill for two days after that battle, and without his abilities to rely on their travel across the territory had been delayed. When Fenris was strong enough to protect his master, they left the estate they had sheltered on, and found themselves pursued by Qunari bands determined to finish them off. The introduction of Fenris into the war had turned battles, but it had also turned heads, and Danarius found that the savage Qunari were not as easily bested as he had hoped. Exhausted and frustrated that his favored slave had failed to turn the tide of the war, Danarius had chosen to take him back to Minrathos. The constant pursuit of Qunari Stens had made the whole endeavor irritating enough that he had chosen to join altus mages and their hired muscle on their journey to the only Tevinter-controlled docks in Seheron, hoping to catch a ship. Fed up with the romantic idea of taking his creation into battle he sought only to return home to the comfort of his estate and his studies.

He was also more than a little irritated at his favored slave. Fenris had thrived in the hot, humid Seheron weather as well as on the battlefield. The challenge of Qunari warriors and especially Serrabaas had drove Fenris to think strategicaly about battle (often aloud) in a way his pitched matches in Minrathos had not. The slave's face had shone with joy as he ripped his way through the first Serrabaas, and the two others he had cut down after. The speed at which Fenris was learning to use his lyrium to dispell and redirect magic had Danarius on edge. He had been forced to rely on Fenris Not just his abilities (which Danarius had always partook of liberally) but his opinions and advice. Until they had connected with the mercenaries and Altus mages, it was Fenris serving as his master's protection and sole companion. Danarius saw a subtle transformation in the elf, from automatic deference and obedience to a quiet confidence that verged on pride. Fenris was becoming clever, quick, self-assured, and less dependent on his master's pleasure for affirmation and praise. It was unnerving to see intelligence and light back in the slave's eyes when Denarius had worked so hard to break it down. It was especially worrying when Fenris was getting so much practice killing mages. 

Earlier that same week, Fenris had dallied to come when called, dispatching an enemy completely before he returned to his master. Danarius had cuffed him across the jaw for that, and ordered him to sleep rough on the ground of the camp, instead of in his place of honor in the master's tent. But without an opportunity to more thoroughly discipline the slave, Danarius worried he would only get bolder. He couldn't risk hurting Fenris badly enough to make him temporarily useless in battle, and he couldn't allow Fenris' newfound will to go unchecked. All they had to do was get back to Minrathos. Once they boarded the ship he would get to work molding Fenris back into the submissive and obedient pet he knew, and they could forget this whole thing ever happened. 

The group followed the trail for hours, filling the air with chatter and complaints. They couldn't be far from their destination, and all we hoping to depart back to Minrathos before nightfall. If any of them had been a Seheron native, the faint smell of cinnamon on the breeze might have notified them that an ambush was coming, but they were foreigners to a one. Fog rolled in faster than anyone could responed. Fenris was lost in mist before he even had a chance to draw his blade. The party was surrounded. For only a moment, there was eerie quiet and pure whiteness. Then the whispers began, shrouded in the oppressive nature of the fog. 

"A pack of lost mages and their shepherds," hissed one voice, whispered but clearly audible, like the hiss of steam from a pipe, "don't you know to stay out of the cinnamon groves?"

Another targeted the slaves with a temptation, "Put down your burdens, and come with us, sisters. The shem cannot stop you from leaving." This message cam three times, once in common, once in Elvhen, and once in heavily accented Low Tevene. 

"So much power and so little sense. Our trap is wasted on foolish prey."

A womans voice called to the mercenaries in common, "If you leave your weapons and depart, we shall not harm you. Leave this place."

Another voice whispered in the low Tevene spoken by servents and slaves, so close to Fenris' ear that he could swear the speaker was inside his own head, "The magister cannot leash you, brother. If you will end him, we will cut you a path to his heart."

It sent a shiver up his spine. Fenris cursed and drew his blade, whirling to find who had spoken, but the fog had closed in on them, if there had ever been anyone there in the first place. The whispers continued speaking over each other almost indistinguishable, as a white shape stepped just out of the mist. 

The shape spoke clearly in common, all other voices falling silent, "You have made a grave mistake coming here. This is protected ground. Kept safe from Tevinter and Qunari alike by the people of this island. You may not pass forward. Free men, If you lay down your weapons and supplies, you may leave the way you came. Slaves, you are free, return to your families or join our cause, we have no quarrel with you. We will kill the magister, of course, and the little magisters he has brought with him." 

One of the young mercenaries loosed an arrow in a fit of perverse bravery. It struck the speaking shape square in the chest, but the shape simply removed it, dislodging it from what must have been a heavily padded jerkin. A matching arrow sprouted in the mercenary's throat and he collapsed to the ground. "This is your last warning," spoke the shape, "Leave your magisters and flee." It faded back into the mist. 

There was a moments calm. They were being allowed to make their choice. Fenris realized the fog had thinned somewhat. It was not as dense and oppressive as it had been moments before. He could see more of his surroundings. Both packs lay abandoned on the ground. Fenris spent a moment to curse the slaves that had run off, not sure why he was angry with them for seeking to spare their own lives. One of the mercenaries lay dead, another had fled. He couldn't see Alvio or the altus mages, but he had a clear line of sight to Danarius. Behind Danarius he saw a gap in the cinnamon trees, vaguely in the direction of their ship. His knew his luck was immense. Taking only a moment's hesitation to consider how badly he would be beaten for his recklessness and presumption, Fenris took the opportunity. He dashed to him, narrowly avoiding a loosed arrow and dodging past a looming white silhouette that emerged seemingly from nowhere. When he arrived at Danarius' side, he summoned all his courage to speak directly to the magister unbidden, "Master, we have to run. You'll be killed. There's a gap in the trees. I can get you to the ship."

Danarius was frozen for a moment, shock plain on his pallid face. Time was of the essence, Fenris refused to let this risk be for nothing. His voice broke as he resorted to begging, "Please, Master." 

With that said, the moment of calm was broken and the sound of clanging metal announced that fighting had begun. The silhouette from earlier had caught up to Fenris. From a closer perspective, Fenris could see see the she was a tall but lean muscled horned Qunari, painted white and wrapped in white cloth and padded white armor, wielding a massive iron cudgel. Her eyes were bright with rage, "You had your chance to flee." The cudgel swung down, and Fenris dragged his master out of the way and toward the gap he had seen in the trees. Finally Danarius shook off whatever indecision had gripped him and began casting, first immobilizing the Tal-Vashoth fog warrior with blood magic His blade cut the requisite sacrifice from Fenris' arm without a second thought. Next, he cast a frost spell that turned the fog into a biting cold flurry, but cleared some of the visibility. It was a trick he had learned from Tevinter war mages, the fog couldn't last if there was no heat to sustain it. It was only a stop gap, he knew, the weather was on the side of the rebels, and their mages would could the air again the moment the desired it. 

Seeing the gap in the trees clearly now, Fenris yanked his master by the front of his robes through the trees. His mind was clouded by fear, heart hammering at the boldness of touching the mage without express permission. They stumbled through the cinnamon grove- visibility low and tall narrow trees looming, until they met resistance in the form of three warriors, two with spears, and an archer. All elves. The first spearman spoke to Fenris in common, "Give him up to us, brother. Let us kill him for you, or turn the blade on him yourself." 

Seeming to have regained his composure, Danarius was breathless and incredulous, "Fenris wouldn't dare. He knows his place. He's my wolf, not rattus scum fighting in jungles over scraps of spice land." 

The spearmem who had spoken ignored Danarius as if he had said nothing. Cautiously, he moved to advance past Fenris to his master, speaking slowly and calmly as if Fenris were a wounded animal, "I won't harm you, brother. All we wish to do is free you from him." 

Fenris swung at him, intending to silence him as much as to attack. The force of Fenris' greatsword shattered the spear, but the recklessness of the swing earned him an arrow in the shoulder in return. Fenris swung again, the first spearman rolling away and unsheathing his dagger. 

As she reloaded and shot at Fenris a second time, Danarius caught the archer in a life drain spell shouting in irritation, "Concentrate, Fenris!" The fog warrior holding the knife sprung from the ground, slashing at Fenris in an attempt to drive him back toward the second spearman. Fenris activated his lyrium, and stepped through the slash like it was wind. The fog warrior fumbled his knife in shock, but kept hold of it. The knife was not enough to defend him against Fenris' blade, which swung in a massive arc, tearing through the fog warrior's hasty block and cutting through his shoulder into his chest. Fenris wrested the blade from the corpse and advanced on the other spearman. 

This one was cannier, silent and watchful. When Fenris attacked, he jumped neatly out the way, taking the opportunity to use his spear's longer reach to cut at Fenris' chest. The strike clanged off his curias. Fenris moved faster in response, mounting a second attack, and a third. The spearman struggled backwards and tried in vain to counter the taller, stronger elf, using his spear's reach and speed to keep Fenris off of him. Ultimately, the battle would have been one of attrition, with Fenris wearing down the other elf over time, but the longer he took, the more likely they were to be surrounded by other fog warriors. He stepped back provoking an attack with the spear, which he sidestepped more quickly than an elf wielding a greatsword should have been able. The movement brought him close to his opponent, inside his guard. Close enough for Fenris to reach out a hand and pluck the heart from his chest. The spearman died quickly. The air was hot with the smell of blood and spice. Fenris had already activated the lyrium twice, and the wellspring of his power was limited. He took a moment to steal himself for the next attack. 

"Come, Fenris," Danarius ordered. The life drain spell had done its job; the archer crumpled on the ground an empty husk. Fenris did as he was told. "There will be more, pet. I need you close."

And there were more, almost immediately. A squad of fog warriors, and a mage in fog warrior white and Dalish vallaslin. Fenris fell quickly into the defensive stance that had become so familiar during their time in Seheron, keeping close to his master. The largest warrior- a huge human with a warhammer swung down at Fenris, while a dual-wielding elf girl with dark skin like Fenris' own snuck around in shadow to knife Danarius in the back. Fenris was used to this trick, noticing her instantly. 

Fenris became immaterial, slipping around to confront the girl, knocking her knives aside with his sword. She skipped out of the way of Fenris' ghostly hand which reached for her throat, and back into a circle of freezing magic conjured by his master. Fenris had practiced for this sort of thing in drills before he left Minrathos, and had become accomplished at backing prey into his master's traps. The girl adequately subdued for now, Fenris spun back to the human with the hammer. 

He blocked the next swing intended for Danarius and the next. Exploiting the slow pace of the hammer he stuck sideways, his blade glancing the warriors ribs. The human howled, and swung again. Fenris ducked underneath the blow and struck another grazing cut to the man's body. Three shades sprung up around Fenris, conjured to counter the three additional warriors which crowded the combatants. "Fenris! Kill him, don't toy with him," Danarius ordered, creating a barrier to cast behind. The elf growled with frustration, redoubling his efforts to slay the warrior while trying to stay out of the shades' way.

Danarius was locked in battle with the other mage, directing a sustained blast of energy at her from behind his barrier. The girl was unharmed, throwing up her own barrier to protect herself. Gritting his teeth with irritation, Danarius raised the bodies of the three fog warriors they had killed earlier and set them against the mage, who screamed in horror. Feeling drained of mana, he called for his slave, "Fenris! Subsisto! Vieni!" . 

To the naked eye, Fenris stepped into the space between the world and the fade, and stepped back out at his master's side. Danarius pressed his palm to Fenris' back where skin was exposed and pulled power from his markings. To Danarius' annoyance, Fenris gave a sharp gasp of pain, as he always did when lyrium was pulled from him. They would work on correcting that behavior when they returned home to Minrathos, the magister thought to himself. Danarius turned his attention back to the Dalish girl, only to find her vanished back into the mist, escaped. 

His master done with him, Fenris lept back into battle, stepping through the warrior with the hammer and coming out the other side of him holding his heart. Making an effort to conserve the lyrium, Fenris used his blade and the assistance of the shades to carve a path through the warriors who stood between them and the direction of the ship, advancing with his master a few yards at a time. It would be easy to mistake Fenris for another of his master's enthralled demons, or a spell given an elvish form. Danarius directed him with gestures and body language as much as with commands and over a decade of practice made their communication almost unnoticeable to an outside observer. Fenris slipped seamlessly between his master and their enemies, serving as both a guard and as a wellspring of mana. They fought their way through another group of fog warriors this way, incapacitating or scaring off more than they outright killed, to Danarius' vocal frustration. All the same the opposition thinned quickly, many turning tail and running. It wasn't long before the fog warriors and the cinnamon grove had both cleared. They found themselves in less and less dense forest, then finally flat farmlands. 

There was no one to be seen here, only barred doors and vacant fields, but the sound of crashing waves could be heard distantly. The village was buttoned up tight, not a soul to be seen. Work man's tools lay abandoned in the fields and the small structures that seemed to serve as homes were ghostly silent. Both Fenris and Danarius were exhausted and out of breath. Worse, Danarius was nearly out of mana. He grabbed the exposed skin of Fenris' upper arm and pulled mana from him greedily. There was little left. Fenris was tapped dry. 

Thoroughly drained, Fenris felt dizzy, sick. His markings flickered queasily, unstable. The last time he had this little lyrium, it had taken him days to recover his abilities. The lack of the metal made him feel outside of himself, almost drunk. Danarius yanked him toward a rocky beach and the sound of the waves, "Heel, Fenris, damn you." Fenris did his best to follow at his master's heel, but the ground felt like it was as slipping away. They stumbled like that for a quarter mile across a rocky shoal until they spotted the dock. The relief of the docks was severely undercut by the scene surrounding it.

In that moment, it became abundantly clear why their fog warrior pursuers had dropped off and why the farm village they had passed through was so abandoned. The Qunarihad invaded the port. The fighting was brutal and the Qunari appeared to be winning. The conflict had not yet reached the docks themselves, but it was clear it was only a matter of time. The Tevinter army was barely keeping off a Qunari barrasaad, and the barrasaad was barely keeping off a squad of fog warriors determined to kill both groups. Danarius cursed, "Venhedis." 

Fenris had never heard his master frightened before, but he heard it in his voice now, even with his head swimming. Fenris stumbled again, fairly certain he was going to be sick. Danarius dobbled back to Fenris, enraged at him for falling behind. Danarius grabbed him roughly by his breast plate and shook him, "Concentrate, boy." 

Fenris tried, but his legs were difficult to control. All he could manage was a weak, "Yes, master."

"Kaffas," Danarius swore and dragged him bodily, "Obey, Fenris. I gave you an order."

Fenris didn't know if he actually managed to walk or if Danarius somehow managed to drag him to the docks. There was a single ship remaing, visibly packed with Tevinters seeking refuge on the mainland. Danarius shouted up at the deck hands, Fenris swaying unsteadily behind him, "Fetch me your captain. I am a magister of the imperial Senate. I demand passage for myself and my property."

Fenris bent and wretched into the sea. Danarius grabbed him, preventing him from toppling into the water, and cuffed him across the face, "Control yourself. Kneel if you cannot handle standing." 

Fenris dropped to his knees like a stone. He said something that could have been, "Yes, master," but could have just as easily been a curse. 

The deck hand was gone for a few long minutes, the fighting advancing closer as the time wore on. By the time the deck hand leaned out over the ship's railing, the Qunari invasion was close enough to hear, "Captain says we can take you, magister, but there's no room for a slave. I'd leave him if I was you. He doesn't look like he'd survive the voyage." 

Danarius was furious, "Fenris isn't just any slave. He's worth more than your ship. Worth more than what you'll see in a lifetime. You will make space."

The deck hand was unmoved, "Unless he can transport you off this dock, magister, he's of less worth than this ship. Captain's orders, there is no room for a slave. There's barely room for a magister. We've already had to turn folk away. If you don't get on now, we'll face the consequences of leaving you when we get to Minrathos. Begging your pardon, but we're not willing to die here for your slave." 

Weighing his options for a split second, there was rage and indecision on Danarius' face. Usually, he would simply order Fenris to slay the deckhand, it was easy enough to open an empty slot on the ship's roster. But Fenris was in no condition to kill. Danarius could've summoned a demon to do the job, but he wasn't sure he had the energy to control it. He cursed again. Not gently, he reached down a hand to grip the back of Fenris' neck, under the high collar of his armor. Touching the lyrium, he did something he had never done before, pouring a bit (only as much as he could spare) of his mana into the elf. He wasn't prepared for how much it would hurt, letting out a gasping shout and pulling his hand away as if burned. The amount of mana had been small, and Fenris was still not in fighting shape. Yet, there was a bit of color back in his face now, not quite alert and strong, but stronger, certainly. Danarius tipped the slave's face up to force Fenris to meet his eyes, "I'll be back for you. Do you understand me? Hide for now. But I expect to find you where I left you. You are to be on this spot waiting, in one week. Repeat, Fenris."

"Hide. Be where you left me in one week." Fenris was certain when he said it that it was a lie. Danarius released him and Fenris struggled to his feet. 

"Good boy. Now go," Danarius touched Fenris' hair once, something that boardered on helplessness in his eyes. Fenris staggered off across the docks. He did not look back until the ship was pulling away. He saw his master's face then, and a feeling curled in his chest he had never felt before; a twisted feeling of justice, of satisfaction, and of hate. A thought came, unbidden. It was like nothing Fenris had thought before, 'If I am to die here, at least I know my death will hurt him.'

It was that thought, strangely comforting in its sheer malice that it fueled Fenris as he dragged himself across the beach and slumped to the ground under a twisted dead tree. He knew he was likely in full view of the Qunari barrasaad, he simply didn't care. Oddly at peace with the idea that he was going to die there, Fenris leaned back into the dead white roots. Its was cool there, and the ringing in his ears shut out the sounds of fighting from down the beach. It was tranquil. For the first time he could remember, Fenris closed his eyes and let out a deep sigh, letting muscles tensed for a decade relax. He was asleep moments later.


	2. Prisoner's Dilemma

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris wakes up exhausted and in an unfamiliar place. He's prepared for an interrogation, he's not prepared to be asked what he wants.

He didn't die. That much was evident. When he woke, he was not under the dead tree. He wasn’t even outside. He was warm, although not as hot as the broiling beach sun and not as humid as the jungle had been. The room he was in was poorly lit, but not difficult to see. He was chained by just one wrist to a stone wall, lying flat on his back on a cot. So he was definitely not dead. He was fairly certain were he at the Maker's bosom he wouldn't be chained to a wall, and the void presumably lacked comfortable beds.

Fenris lay in an unfamiliar room in unfamiliar clothes. He wondered for a moment if he had slept for the whole week and his master had already retrieved him. Perhaps he was in the ship's hold. But there was no sway of waves under him, and Danarius would know better than to try to bind Fenris with a simple iron shackle. Testing the shackle cautiously, he attempted to phase through it, but found his mana was still too drained. Clearly, he hadn't been asleep long enough for his lyrium to replenish. It couldn’t have been more than a day or two. 

He wasn’t dead, and Danarius hadn’t retrieved him. There were other options, of course. The most likely was that he had been captured, either by the Tevinter forces he had seen, or the Qunari. Tevinters, he suspected, would have known him for a slave and placed him in decidedly less comfortable accommodations. A comfortable cot in an unbarred room was high luxury for a slave, and it's much more likely that they would've tossed him in a cell to wait for his master's return. The room was also distinctly non-Tevinter, simple furniture and architecture, no sconces flickering with veilfire, and the ostentatious glimmer of magical wards was absent. 

The Qunari were more likely- he wore simple jute clothing and there was no sign of magic anywhere. The comfortable accommodations also made sense, Qunari were well known for trying to convert their captives. That would be the eventuality he would plan for. His master had trained him for the possibility of capture. Told him the Qunari would offer him things, threaten things, make promises. Fenris had to remember that the way of Qunari interrogators was to lie. Fenris knew that no matter what the Qunari said to him, no matter what they promised, he would be a Serrabaas to them, a "dangerous thing." Danarius had told him, "They will not care that you are not a mage, you were made by a mage and that will be enough." Fenris believed this to be true. The Qunari’s hatred of magic was known, and if a mage were too dangerous to be kept, and elf branded with lyrium certainly would be. Besides, his master had never lied to him. 

Escape in his mind, he examined the room to get the lay of the land. It seemed to be an infirmary of some kind. There were other cots, all empty. High in the stony far wall and directly above his head there were narrow windows not even an elf could slip through, filtering dim light into the room. It must be day time. He concluded based on the smell of earth and the height of the windows that he was being held underground. On the wall to his left, there was an iron door shut tight and on the wall to his right a series of closed cabinets in dark wood. Once his lyrium replenished its power, he suspected it would be easy enough to leave, but who knows how many Stens stood outside waiting on that possibility. 

There was a clang from the iron door as it swung open. To his surprise, no Sten entered, nor a Tevinter soldier nor slave dropping of a sparse meal. An elf entered, dark-skinned like Fenris himself, but with short-cropped black hair to match. She wore shabby clothes that may have marked her for a slave, but that clearly wasn't the case. Though she bore hot water and food, she was uncollared and sported long daggers strapped to her back and an easy confidence Fenris did not associate with slaves. The most striking thing about her appearance, however, was the jagged scar that split her face from just under her chin, across her nose, and through her left eyebrow. He wasn’t stupid enough to believe she wasn’t Qunari just because she was an elf, he knew better. They were silent for a split second, sizing each other up. 

She spoke first, raising one dark eyebrow and giving him a mistrustful look, "You're awake. Are you going to let me give you your food, or are you going to try to kill me if I get too close?" 

His stomach growled at the mention of food. He was sure he hadn't eaten properly in days. "I require nothing," he lied. He had been told the Qunari put drugs in your food. To make you talk.

"You were already skinny when we found you, and you've been asleep for a full two days. You're hungry." She spoke to him the way a magister might, like he was some uniquely stupid animal.

He hesitated, wondering who she was, but unwilling to directly ask. She continued, "Just so you understand, there weren't a lot of volunteers for this job. You did a lot of damage out there and most of us don't think you're safe. So if you hurt me, it'll take a while to find someone else willing to bring you breakfast."

He considered this, "I will not harm you." He was fairly certain he was too weak to harm her if he tried. 

She scurried in swiftly, depositing the food and hot water next to his cot, then skipped deftly backwards out of arm's reach. There was porridge and bread. The porridge was spiced with cinnamon, nutmeg and clove. Fenris inhaled the aroma gratefully, but did not eat. Saar-qamek- the poison Fenris had been taught to fear above all else- was supposed to be detectable by a lyrium-like glow. He had been told by his master that saar-qamek could erase a person's memories, rewrite their loyalties, turn a person to the Qun. It was not a subtle poison. He sifted through the bowl with a wooden spoon, looking for any trace glowing or odd color. Satisfied that he was not ingesting Saar-qamek at least, Fenris took a cautious bite of porridge.

He expected the girl to leave him to his meal, but she didn't, instead, she sat cross-legged on another cot well out of his reach. Maybe she was an interrogator, though she didn't look it, "I'm Eleida. What are you called?"

Knowing his name was harmless, he supposed, and he could trade some information for others, "My master calls me Fenris. Are you viddathari? Ben-hassrath?"

Eleida seemed confused by the question, split face twisting into a smile, "You think I'm Qunari? You must have been hit pretty hard on the head to be this dizzy. You don't recognize me?"

This had to be some kind of trap. He waited for a moment, trying to be sure before saying, "I confess I do not." 

"I would be insulted, but I'm not the only person you tried to kill. I suppose they must blend together."

He looked at her more closely, curious in spite of himself. He worked to put the pieces together, the daggers, her skin, the way she had skipped back from him when handing over the porridge. As a hint, she raised her hand to cover the lower half of her face. That's what it took for him to realize. She was the fog warrior girl who had tried to knife his master. Which meant he wasn't being held by Qunari, but by Fog Warriors, a possibility he hadn't even considered. In his experience, the Fog Warriors didn’t hold people prisoner, particularly not slaves, who they always insisted were free from the first moment of contact with the rebels. 

"I thought my master killed you," he was a little shocked to see her alive. Danarius' frost spells weren't as devastating as his blood magic, but Fenris had seen only a handful of combatants escape them unscathed. 

"That mage you were with? He tried to off me. But ice is pretty easy to dispel if you carry the right flasks," She mimed flinging a glass to the ground, and a resulting poof of flame, face devilish in the low light. Fenris understood; she was one of those flask-throwing rouges- Tempests. Tempest skills were rare in the Imperium as the resources needed for it were most often allocated to mages and their experiments. He had heard it could be quite effective against elemental magic when used correctly, but he had never actually seen it used before. He found himself wishing he had seen how she got out of the ice. She continued, "You were his slave?"

"I am his slave, yes."

"How long?" She was curious, clearly, leaning forward, boney elbows on bonier knees. 

He took the easiest answer, not caring to elaborate on his unusual circumstances, "For as long as I can remember." 

These weren't the questions he had expected from an interrogator. According to what his master had taught him, she ought to be asking about troop movements, his master's name and rank, in the Imperium, his master's household and vulnerabilities, his weaknesses. At the very least he assumed she would ask about the markings. He had never met anyone who hadn't asked about the markings. He wondered then if she even was an interrogator, or just a very foolish servant. 

"I'm sorry for you." She said, throwing Fenris for another loop. What could that possibly mean? Was it some kind of threat?

"For imprisoning me?"

"No, I'm sorry that you've been a slave your whole life."

"It is simply what I am," he said, performing disinterest,"I am not shamed by it." He wondered if it sounded as false as it was. Disinterest was the last thing he felt. He felt compelled to defend himself. He wanted to explain that he was his master's favorite, that he was not just any slave, that his master valued him, that his master trusted him with his blade, and his lyrium brands. He was tempted to turn the pity around on her, to say that he felt sorry for her. That she ought to want to be in his position. He wanted to say that branded with lyrium, well trained and at his master's side was the best life an elf could hope for. After all, without a powerful mage to shape her, how could she live up to her potential? She could never improve herself the way a magister could improve her. She ought to be the one to feel shame! She was the one out here scrabbling in the dirt, playing at rebellion, when she should be doing her duty to the Maker and to the Imperium. Fenris was proud, he was a credit to his master. Without that, there was nothing else about himself to be proud of.

Even without his scolding, her eyebrows knit together in an expression he couldn't read, "You're right. There's nothing to be ashamed of. It couldn’t be helped. Besides, you're free now."

Fenris' stomach dropped. "You lie."

"You escaped and he's gone back to the mainland, you're as free as I am," She was insistent now, gesturing with her hands.

The idea made Fenris uneasy and he found himself responding with more information than he intended to provide, "I did not escape. I was simply separated from him. My master will return for me." 

"If he comes for you, we'll protect you," there was challenge in her eyes, "When I ran away, I thought my former master would come for me, too. He always made it seem like he would hunt us to the ends of the earth. He never did."

Fenris was silent, and took a sip of the water she had provided, still warm from being boiled. The cup obscured his mouth, but the set of his eyebrows and the position of his ears showed dismissiveness that bordered on irritation. Her cheeks reddened then and her hands balled into fists. She raised her voice, "What are you, a coward?! I'm a fog warrior. You're with the fog warriors. And we're not afraid of some old git in a frock."

Fenris steeled himself, feeling a long-suppressed anger flare. He owed her no deference, she was no free person, she was no magister. She was simply an escaped slave- a knife-ear, a Rattus. He did not have to coddle her, “And who was your master, then? Some soporati with modest lands and an old title? A merchant? A brothel keeper? My master is a magister, a member of the Imperial Senate and a powerful mage. He doesn't abandon his property like its nothing. When he comes, I will return to his side, and it would be in your best interest to stay out of the way." 

She flinched at the word "brothel." He was tempted to take advantage, but what he had just said had been more words than he typically spoke in a month and he found himself at a loss for more words. Eleida stood swiftly and brushed off herself off as if she had been there long enough to gather dust. Her chin jutted in stubborn determination and her eyes were full of fire, if a little damp. "You may not want our help, Fenris. But you have it nonetheless. I was like you once. Many of us were." She left then, closing the iron door harder than was strictly necessary and he was alone again. 

It was hours before someone else came by. Fenris spent the time sparking the lyrium in his body, trying desperately to phase out of the chain, but he was still too weak and his lyrium had been too thoroughly drained. Frustrated and unused to a physical challenge he could not overcome, Fenris rubbed his wrist raw trying to slip the chain. Wrist too sore for more struggling and lyrium still unusable, he simply lay propped up petulantly against the wall at the head of the cot. It was the first time since he arrived in Seheron that he could remember feeling bored, and he was grateful for the distraction when the iron door swung open again. According to the shadows cast on the floor, it had to be about lunchtime. He expected to see the elf girl again but Eleida was nowhere to be seen. Fenris felt his stomach squirm a bit. He wondered if this had always been the plan or if his outburst had driven her away. It occurred to him that he couldn't remember a time before now when he'd upset someone who didn't have the authority to hit him. The new food-bearer was closer to Fenris' expectations, a huge Qunari woman with twisted horns and a crown of white braids that fell nearly to her waist. She brought food that Fenris had never seen before. A steaming hot plate of vegetables in a frighteningly red sauce over rice. He wasn't starving, not like he was the first time food had been brought. He turned up his nose the way he had been taught in training, "I will not eat. This is certainly poisoned."

The Qunari woman gave him a withering look, soundlessly picked up the wooden spoon and took three large bites. She moved as if to take the food away, and years of hunger caused Fenris to reach out for it instinctively. She huffed a laugh, and placed the bowl and spoon in his hand. She deposited the rest, a bit of bread, cheese, and a cup of weak wine on the table next to the bed. Fenris didn't know why he expected her to leave, after all, Eleida hadn't. The big gray woman pulled up a chair a good distance away and produced a notepad from the folds of her shirt. 

"Eleida says you are called Fenris. Is this your name?" She asked as if the answer meant very little to her. 

Ah, finally a real interrogator, "If I have another name, I do not know it." 

She wrote that down, "The mage you were with, what's his name and rank?"

Fenris was prepared for this line of questioning and he relaxed. He knew he was allowed to answer, "He is my master, Magister Danarius of the Imperial Senate, Head Scholar of the College of Arcanists in Minrathos, Ba-"

She waved a hand, dismissively, interrupting him, "'Magister Danarius' was plenty, thank you. Where do you hail from?"

"My master is of the College of Arcani-"

She gave him a look like he was especially stupid, "Are you him, then? I thought you were Fenris. Where do _you_ hail from? You don't have the coloring of a Minrathos boy."

"I was born here, I'm told. I was moved to Minrathos when I was a child."

She smiled, "I knew it. You had the look of an island elf about you. Where in Seheron?"

"I do not know."

She jotted that down as well, "Eleida says you were always a slave?" He nodded. "What were your duties?"

"I am his bodyguard." 

“You’re not guarding him now. So you _were_ his bodyguard. Be precise in your speech.” she said, “Did you enjoy it?” 

It had never occurred to him to ask that question, “It does not matter.” 

She wrote something down. “You’re too good in battle to not enjoy it at all. Tell me about those,” She gestured to his markings. 

“They’re nothing,” he lied, “My master likes the contrasts.” That at least, was true. 

“So the reports I’ve heard of you sticking your hands into Letan and Killion were pure conjecture, then? I could’ve sworn there were holes in their sternums and their blood on your gauntlets. Or maybe those tattoos are unconnected?”

He was silent.

“We’ve been intercepting reports from Qunari Ben Haasrath that say an elf with markings like yours has been tearing his way through northeastern Barrasaads while a mage that matches your master’s description pulls mana from him like he’s a lyrium potion. That’s you, right?”

Fenris didn’t reply. So the Qunari continued, “So based on some conjecture and a rumor I’ve been hearing going around, those ‘nothing markings’ are made of lyrium, correct?”

He nodded, it was useless to try to conceal it, any mage they brought in could check. “That wasn’t so bad now, was it? How do they work?”

“I do not know,” he answered truthfully, “They just do. If I wish to pass through something, I simply can, with some effort.”

Her eyes flicked to where he was chained, “Whenever you like?”

He took the easiest answer, “If I could phase through this,” he clinked the manacle, “Don’t you think I would have?”

“Why can’t you? That mage drained all your mana? That would explain why you slept for so long. You didn’t seem all that hurt when we found you.” She was writing again, looking as engaged as any magister did when Fenris’ markings were the topic of conversation. 

“Yes.”

“So you need mana in order to do it? Could you drink a lyrium potion? I should like to see-” She cut herself off, but her eyes were bright with interest. 

“I’ve never tried,” he said.

“They can kill non-mages, it’s probably best not to try. Are you a mage?”

“No.”

“Does that mage give you the mana, or do you make it on your own?”

“I make it on my own,” he said, except that was a lie, wasn’t it? He usually made it on his own, but a fuzzy, drunken memory drifted to the forefront of his mind. His master had poured mana into him in a moment of desperation, to get Fenris off the docks. He had a hard time believing it, he was certain that receiving mana from Danarius wasn’t possible. If it were, Danarius would have trained him for it. 

“Alright, then. So, presumably, you could escape at any time. In that case, I have to lay out the plan for you, Fenris, and then you can make a decision on how you want us to proceed. We can’t keep you here against your will, clearly, and we wouldn’t want to. That’s not how the Fog Warriors do business. You have a few options-”

“Take me back to where my master left me and leave me there,” the answer was simple, it was the only one that would prevent Fenris from incurring his master’s wrath. Fenris made the determination on the spot that he simply would not tell Danarius of his capture, it was better for everyone that way. 

The Qunari woman smiled sheepishly, “I don’t think that’s going to be possible. The area has been taken over by a Qunari beresaad. You’d be captured immediately, and with your power and strength, they’d have you fighting on the front lines against us in no time at all.”

“Then drop me at a Tevinter stronghold,” he responded, irritated. 

“Same basic problem applies, elf. We can’t get close without loss of life, and we aren’t interested in having you kill any more of our people as a slave-warrior. We don’t want you given to any side of this battle.”

He yanked against his chain, lyrium flickering as he tried to phase out, “So you’ll keep me for yourself, then? I thought the Fog Warriors believed in freeing slaves, not owning them.” 

“Calm down, we have other options. We’re freeing you, of course-”

“You have no right!” he pulled against the chain again, “I don’t belong to you.”

She was quiet for a moment, giving him time to rage and struggle, “You wish to return to the mage? Say it if it’s true.”

He opened his mouth to say it, to profess his desire to return to Danarius, to return to his place, but the words didn’t come. His thoughts returned to his last moments of consciousness before his capture, the perverse sense that he could hurt his master by dying. He thought of the way that thought had comforted him. He thought of the way his master had relied on him, depended on him for weeks in the jungle, but scolded him the moment a free man offered his opinion. He thought of the way Danarius pulled mana and cut blood sacrifices from him whenever he desired, but so often forgot Fenris’ meals or denied him sleep. He thought of Danarius striking him on the docks for being sick. Then his mind turned further back to all the times Danarius had ordered him whipped because Hadrianna had perceived some slight. He considered the frequent occasions when Danarius had humiliated and hurt him, when he had rented Fenris out to other magisters, when he had taken Fenis to bed, then kicked him out onto the cobblestone floor when he was done with him. He remembered the times he had worked up the courage to ask his master who he had been before the lyrium brands and found himself promptly back on Danarius’ worktable, screaming. 

He barely recognized his voice, much less the honesty it contained, “I have nothing else.”

She smiled, “Good news for you, then, Fenris. You have other options. Are you prepared to listen to them?”

He nodded, “Yes.” 

That’s when the conversation actually began. The Qunari introduced herself as “Keadec” and explained what had happened since Fenris was last awake. “We found you on the beech, we were already retreating. Padrig, one of our warriors, recognized you from battle. He advocated we put you out of your misery. Some of the rest of us said you should receive the same treatment as any other slave combatant. We couldn’t come to a consensus, so nearly half of our number split off to a different camp closer to the conflict, the rest of us took you up here,” She saw Fenris’ look of shock and elaborated, “We’re not an army. We come and go as we like, and our group was getting awfully large. We’re all still a part of the rebellion, we’re just in two smaller groups.”

Fenris nodded as if he understood. Keadec continued, “So we took you up here to recover, and tried to decide what we would do with you. Typically we tell freed slaves, even combatants, to go on their way, to run off, find their families, pursue crafts, whatever they wish. But those markings make you somewhat of a special case. If the Vints or the Qunari get ahold of you, well, it wouldn’t turn the tide of the war, but it would certainly make things a little more difficult. So that’s unfortunately off the table for now. You could also live in the village here, it’s well concealed from raids, and you can pursue some things. We don’t really have a university if you’re looking for that sort of thing, but you could learn a trade, or farm or simply drink yourself to death if that’s to your interest. All of our families live here, and they’re as safe as anyone in Seheron. You could also join the rebellion. That would be wonderful for us, of course, and if you want to continue to fight, it's a good option. Or we could take you across the island and put you on a boat to the Free Marches. It’s the biggest risk but it gives you a way out of Seheron permanently without putting you directly into the hands of Magisters or Qunari.”

Fenris listened as she rattled off the pros and cons, explaining how each option might affect him. He realized as he listened that his perception of her as an intimidating interrogator was wrong. She had much more in common with the mage from the Imperial College who came each year to test Hadriana’s skills and advise her on her competencies. Once, when he was younger, that mage had slipped him a bit of candy he was too afraid to eat. Keadec was kind. Kindness had a way of intimidating Fenris. Noticing that she had been speaking for some time and realizing Fenris had been silent, Keadec paused, “Do you need some time, Fenris? I know this must be a difficult choice, after all I’m asking you to become a rebel.” 

He met her eyes steadily, realizing in that moment the only path that made sense to him, the only path where he was still a warrior and still had value, “No. I don’t need time. I’ll do it. I’ll become a rebel.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If the last chapter was all action, this one is all talk. At this point in the story Fenris doesn't believe he's free, he might not believe it until Danarius is dead. But I'm intending to show the process by which he gains the will to fight back and start to see himself as a person. Let me know your thoughts! I love comments just like everyone else!


	3. Harsh Questions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris isn't sure how to get the Fog Warriors to return him to Minrathos, but he's willing to give it one last try. Meeting the Fog Dancer is different than he expects.

The Fog Warriors were understandably concerned about the lyrium. Fenris had met four or five of them in the two days it took for his power to replenish, and each of them spared a wary look for his markings. Most interested remained Keadec, peppering him with unwelcome questions.

“How long have you had them?”

“Since I was fifteen years old.”

“Do they hurt?”

“Yes.”

“How long until they are able to be used again?”

“I do not know.” 

“How were they made?”

“A ritual.”

“Can they be deactivated? Stopped?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“Could you remove them?”

“Not without destroying me.” 

Kaedec’s questions were a persistent annoyance to Fenris. During the time he spent in the infirmary, she was a frequent visitor, often bringing friends to greet him, some of whom were understandably hostile to the elf who had killed or injured so many of their friends. However, Fenris was less irritated by the outward hostility than the constant curiosity. 

He was used to being the topic of conversation, of course, it was difficult to look like Fenris and not have people take notice of you. It was the way this conversation was directed at him, not around him that he found so chafing. Typically when someone questioned Fenris about his markings, he only needed to answer one or two questions before Danarius took over. He would grasp Fenris by the chin and tilt his face so the lyrium on his forehead and below his lower lip caught the light and say to the questioner, “Why interrogate the art when you could interrogate the artist? My wolf comprehends little of these things. He’s all power, little understanding.” Those words always stung, but they represented a welcome respite from having to explain. Now Keadec’s curiosity meant he was confronted with the truth of his master’s statement: he didn’t know much at all about his markings. 

The experience made him feel ignorant, and when that feeling combined with the impotence of being trapped in the infirmary for days he became irritable. When Keadec brought him a meal on the third day and set instantly to querying him, Fenris spoke without thought, tone acerbic, “Is there a point to this line of questioning, or is it the Qunari way to torture prisoners in this fashion?” 

Keadec tossed her head back so fast in such a hearty laugh that she tangled a braid on one of her horns, “Eleida didn’t mention you were funny.”

“I’m not,” he insisted, an ear flicking with irritation. 

“Well,” she said, “You should know that I know absolutely nothing about the Qunari or how they torture, so you’re safe on that front. I’m not a Qunari and I never have been.”

He looked at her skeptically, noted the horns, the skin, and almost spoke up, but shied away from it. He was a prisoner and he had challenged her enough already. She continued anyway, “Qunari is the religion. I was never Qunari. My parents were Tal-Vashoth, but I’m not even that. Tal-Vashoth means you’ve left the religion, and, once again, I was never in it to begin with. So Qunari torture? You’re not going to get it from me.”

Fenris didn’t speak. It was a natural response for him to wait and see where things went instead of interjecting, and quiet had served him well. He focused on his lunch instead. Fog Warrior meals were typically porridge in the morning, to Fenris’ relief, and some kind of bizarre mix of meat and vegetables in a strongly flavored and often spicy sauce for almost every other meal. This was one of the sauce affairs, and Fenris still approached the dish with some trepidation. The rebels were feeding him three square meals a day, more consistently and in larger amounts than he had eaten in his life. He could afford to be a little choosy. As he picked his way through the food, Keadec sat quiet, thinking. Finally, as he examined some obscure vegetable, she spoke again, “You’ve got kind of a smart mouth for a slave.”

He responded in the new way he had been learning to speak with her, the one where he said the first thing that came to his mind and hoped with blind faith it wouldn’t get him hurt, “It’s something new I’m trying out.”

“Did you get to talk with people often before now?”

“My master took me plenty of places, parties mostly. I met many magisters,” He wasn’t really listening to her, focused more on the lightning orange cube he had found in his food, “What is this?”

“Sweet Potato.” 

He picked the sweet potato out of the dish and set it aside. He had never been allowed sweet things, and potatoes were for Fereldan Dog Lords. Best not to attempt eating it. She continued, sparing a disparaging look for the growing pile of unfamiliar vegetables set aside on Fenris’ plate, “I asked if you got to speak to many people, not magisters.”

He almost laughed at the absurdity of Kaedec’s statement. Magisters were people, it was Fenris, and likely Keadec herself that didn’t meet that standard in the Maker’s sight. Instead of laughing, a reaction he had suppressed long ago, he answered the question that had been posed, “If that is your criteria, then no. I was forbidden to speak to other slaves.” 

“I’m surprised you’re so… Well, the way that you are.” She gestured at him with a big gray hand, “You talk like a person. Gavits- you know Gavits- The bastard that owned him didn’t let him speak to people, and he’s still not much of a talker.”

Fenris had met Gavits once, he was a half-elf mage of very meager talent who had come to check on the healing arrow wound in Fenris’ shoulder. He had peeled away the gauze, declared succinctly and unhelpfully that, “It will finish healing,” and took his leave. It was not the worst treatment Fenris had ever received from a healer, but it left something to be desired. 

“Perhaps he doesn’t care for the conversation,” Fenris acted casual as if he were joking. He did not precisely know how to joke, so he settled for imitating the lofty way his master would speak to colleagues about a foolish servant or an incompetent apprentice. Fenris knew he spoke well, and he understood why. He was a good imitator- a pretty parrot, his master had remarked once, after ordering Fenris to repeat after him. Fenris had a good ear for languages and for subtext. Slavery made you a good listener, even if it didn’t make you an excellent speaker. He had both advantages. His master found his skill with language amusing and had trained Fenris until he spoke Common, High and Low Arcanum (even quite a bit of the old tongue), Qunlat (enough to explain how he was to properly be ransomed), and at least enough Antivan and Orlesian to get by. 

Fenris’ skill with languages had been a party trick back home. Knowledge was as much a display of his master’s money and power as the lyrium brands. Tutors were expensive, and the reality that Danarius had the means to waste that kind of money on an illiterate slave was an unsubtle indication to his rivals that the magister had plenty of resources to piss away on petty things. 

There had been more to it than that. Fenris was with his master more than anyone else. Danarius’ children lived on the estates of their mentors and sponsors. His wife had returned to live with her parents after their second son was born. “An heir and a spare,” Danarius often referred to his sons this way. Fenris had never even met his master’s family. Danarius lived in the type of isolation only the wealthy could afford, alone but for lavish parties and slave attendants. Fenris was his guard, his pet, his whore, but he was often his master’s primary companion. Other magisters were rivals, his family was legacy, other slaves were simply property, Fenris was an exception. Exalted enough to be allowed to speak to the magister, with permission, but still loyal and fearful enough to never challenge or upset Danarius. He had been trained to speak somewhat knowledgeably on topics that interested his master, namely art, senate gossip, and Imperial history. It was not something Fenris was proud of. He may have been trained for chat, but he had been made for battle.

Attempting to distract Keadec from her newfound interest, he gave sparking the lyrium in his arms a try. This time, mana replenished, it worked easily. Keadec was distracted by the markings all over again and Fenris was safe from her questions.

\-----------------------

Fenris was well enough to leave the infirmary. He had been spinning fantasies of what the rebel camp might look like in his mind. Maybe the buildings would be painted all white, blending into the unnatural mist. Perhaps they lived in trees, or aravels like the Dalish, or even the communal barracks living of the Qunari. He was unbearably disappointed to learn that the camp the rebels lived in was a converted magister's estate. It was like dozens of such estates he had been on in his life, except much of the luxury and status had been worn away. Instead of dozens of slaves keeping meekly out of sight and perfect immaculate halls, the estate functioned as a camp, dirt crusted fine marble floors, and rich rooms meant for magister’s families and guests were divided into barracks. Few people slept in the servants' and slaves' quarters, which had mostly been filled with supplies and weapons, and nobody slept in the elaborate magisters quarters. Fenris would later find out they had been summarily ransacked and destroyed when the estate’s slaves had been liberated by the fog warriors decades back.  
The first task that had been asked of Fenris was to meet with the group’s Fog Dancer. Kaedec had explained to him that the dancer wasn’t exactly their leader, but that they made most of the big decisions around the camp, and were the spiritual and historical guide to the rebel band. Kaedec spoke with an energetic passion that Fenris instantly recognized as admiration, maybe even devotion. Fenris had to stop himself from sniping back with, “So she’s your mistress, then?” 

He had imagined an old witch, possibly shrouded in fog always, maybe blind eyes that saw all, or shriveled crone’s fingers that could tell your fortune in strewn bones. He had only ever heard of the Fog Dancers from Tevinter soldiers and his master, none of whom had ever seen one. They had spun tales of friends and friends of friends who had seen them cavorting with demons and dancing in caves, nude around cauldrons of mist. So he was surprised when Kaedec led him not into the woods, but down to the kitchens. There he met an elf with sandy brown hair and limpid blue-gray eyes who couldn’t have been more than a few years older than Fenris. He had a lean, attractive body like a tumbler, gymnast, or a message runner, but bore a brand on his left cheek that marked him as a caught runaway. A low-status one at that. Slaves that had run away and were still meant to be seen often had their brands in less noticeable places. The boy- the young man?- was sitting cross-legged on a table, peeling potatoes into a bucket. Slave’s work, Fenris couldn’t help but think. Keadec introduced him with an outsized flourish, “Fenris, this is Arran, our Fog Dancer. Arran, this is Fenris. I’ll leave you two to chat.” Unexpectedly, she gave a jaunty little salute and abandoned Fenris to his fate.

Fenris stood awkwardly, hands clasped behind his back, unsure how to address someone who was both slave and free, someone who held Fenris’ life and also a potato in his hands. Arran gestured to the table, “Have a seat, Fenris. I don’t bite.” He shot Fenris a disarming smile that reminded him of a flirty kitchen girl. Fenris clambered onto the table- there were no chairs- and sat a good distance away from the Fog Dancer. Arran set his potato aside when he was finished peeling it and looked long and deep into Fenris’ eyes. Fenris’ instincts screamed to look away, to avoid the gaze, but Arran’s look was captivating. The elf didn’t appear to be a mage, but there was certainly a kind of power about him that contrasted his humble- if pretty- appearance. Seemly satisfied with what he saw, the young man started on the next potato. 

“Kaedec says you’re still loyal to your magister, Fenris. Is this true?” Arran asked it as if he were asking about the weather. 

Fenris considered lying about it. He had tried lying about it to Keadec. Apparently that had been a disaster. “I intend to return to him, yes. If you ransom me, I expect he will pay. He considers me valuable.”

“And unleash you on the rest of Seheron? I’ve seen you fight, Fenris, and I have no interest in inflicting your power on my own people.”

“My master has little interest in returning to the war effort,” Fenris said, fairly certain it was true, “The only reason he would return to Seheron is to collect me.”

Arran stretched out one slender leg, flexing and pointing his foot until the joint cracked, then tucked it back underneath him and did the other. Fenris wondered if the “dancer” in “Fog Dancer” was literal, the young man moved with grace, and up-close Fenris could see he was mostly lean muscle.

“Let’s assume that’s true. That gives no consideration to all the other parties involved. What of the people that Magister will have you slay in Minrathos? What of the slaves he’ll have you make examples of? What of you, Fenris? You say you want to return to him, but slavery is no life. I would know,” He tapped the brand on his face cheekily, looking at Fenris like they were sharing some joke. 

“You and I are not the same,” Fenris said, “My master made me. There is a fortune of lyrium in my flesh. I am an investment, one he would see returned.”

“Danarius didn’t make you, Fenris. He branded you. He just used a more expensive material. Regardless, It’s simply not an option to send you to him. We have never sent someone back to slavery, and we will not make an exception.” 

Fenris was irritated now, tired of explaining, “He will come for me. His arrival is inevitable. When he comes he will burn this place to the ground and take me home to Minrathos. If you ransom me properly, you save your people and maybe you save me a lashing. That is the best you can hope for.”

Arran smiled again, eyes soft, “There’s not a magister in Tevinter nor a Qunari across Thedas who wouldn’t like to see this sanctuary burnt to the ground. We are protected, and so are you, so long as you are here. You will not be lashed, we will not be burnt. Until the promise is fulfilled and the fog is lifted, we are safe here, and that is still a long time off.” 

Arran rose, ending the possibility of more discussion of Fenris’ ransom. He scooted off the table, and walked to the fire where a kettle had begun to whistle, “Tea?” Against his better judgment, Fenris found himself nodding, the room had grown quite cool, and a hot drink was welcome. Arran poured a cup and passed it to Fenris before taking one himself. 

“What do you know of your homeland, Fenris? I’m told you were born here.”

“Little and less,” Fenris confessed, inhaling the sweet aroma of the tea.

“Honesty is good. Few people know our history. Fewer know it accurately, but us native boys, we ought to know where we come from. You are like Seheron, Fenris, as am I. For centuries, the Imperium has tried to make this island its slave. Sometimes it was efficient enough to believe it had succeeded, sometimes even Seheron believed itself a slave. The Imperium killed our griffons, it pillaged our fields, raped and enslaved our people, but with its cruelty, it brought upon itself a curse. It brought the curse of our hate. We knew the island better than they did, knew the ancient magics that permeate every stone and tree. We drew upon the curse of Nahar and turned the fog against Tevinter, turned the slaves they brought to our cause, turned the power of their strongholds, their magics, their roads and bridges. Tevinter could not break us, and when the Qunari came, they could not break us.” 

Arran paused to take a sip of his tea, the flippant, flirtatious elf was there underneath, but he was shrouded in the wisdom and power of an ancient tradition. His voice held weight, promise, and certainty. There was a prickly feeling in the air, something akin to power, “Do you know why the Qunari and Tevinter will not break us, Fenris?”

Fenris didn’t know why he had been asked and he felt pressure locked in Arran’s blue-gray gaze, “Because of the fog? Or the promise?” He was stumbling to understand how this was connected, but it felt important to answer. Arran’s eyes were fever-bright but he did not smile. His face was almost blank, but for quiet, smoldering anger that was just barely revealed. There was a kind of magic in the air, Fenris’ lyrium could feel it and it sent his hackles up. He could tell Arran was no mage, but there was an aura about him that spoke to something very old and very powerful. When he spoke, Fenris heard only his voice. In the cold currents of magic in the air, there was an echo as if generations of Fog Dancers were speaking with him. Arran placed a finger on the brand on his cheek in what Fenris thought was an absent gesture, but then realized was intentional, “Because of this,” he reached out and grasped Fenris’ hand, pressing a thumb into the place where the line of lyrium split from his wrist out to his thumb, “Because of these.”

Fenris jerked his hand away, pained, but Arran continued undeterred, “Because each new cruelty, each new injustice, breeds weapons against them. Each pain they cause sets a flame of Hate in our hearts that they cannot extinguish. That’s the truth of it. The fog, the promise, those are advantages, but what turns the tide of the war is Hate and the determination that Hate breeds. You have that Hate in your heart, Fenris. Nurture your fury, allow it to grow and you will start to understand the depth of the injustice that was done to you. You think you are broken, you think yourself a slave, but I see the truth of it. If Danarius intended to make you a lap dog, he failed. He made a wolf and wolves bite back.” 

Arran’s face held no levity. There was a heavy seriousness in the air. Fenris’ pulse was hammering in his eardrums. He felt he ought to run. For a moment, the power in the air felt as if it were about to crash over him, looming like a great wave. Arran recognized the fear on Fenris’ face. He blinked and -just as quickly as it had built- the power emptied from the room, dissipating like the fog. Somehow, Arran’s cup had frosted over. He looked at it sadly and went to dump it out, refilling it on his way back to the table. 

“My apologies. I didn’t mean to frighten you.” Arran looked tired now as if what he had said took something out of him, “I have a tendency to get a bit carried away.”

“I am not frightened of magic,” Fenris lied.

“Then I am sorry that I touched you without your permission. As I said, I get carried away,” He smiled in a way that wasn’t the same as the easy flirtation from before, “Pretty elves are a weakness.”

He couldn’t help but chuckle a little, covering it with a cough. The ice was broken again. Arran smiled more genuinely, “What I’m trying to say is that I believe you can be trustworthy. I believe you can be free.” 

He paused, “But I cannot trust you yet. I can give you free rein within the estate, but for now, you will remain here and won’t venture out. Further, I will ask Eleida to accompany you wherever you go. She’s hotheaded, but she has more in common with you than Kaedec does. And we have other needs for Kaedec. Is this amenable to you?”

The authority in Arran’s voice was clear and Fenris responded the only way he knew how, “Yes, Ser.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I sort of ending up making up my own interpretation of some of the very limited information on Seheron and its native culture, most of it is connected to Codex entries, but I've definitely moved a lot of the connective tissue around to suit the kind of character I wanted from Arran. I think the Fog Warriors are a little like the Dalish in that their keepers/fog dancers tend to focus on the pieces of the lore/history that suit them, and although they carry similar traditions they're not always exactly the same. Arran is younger and new to being the group's dancer, he had been apprenticing for a while before the group split and he became the sole dancer for this cell. I don't plan to reveal much about how exactly the Fog Warriors do things, but there is definitely a heady mix of magic, science and idealogy that makes their insurgency work. 
> 
> Once again, your comments and Kudos are so appreciated! They make my day.


	4. Broken Leash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris isn't sure how to feel about Eleida or the Fog Warriors, but he catches himself wishing.

Eleida waited for him outside the kitchens. She looked a bit more intimidating now, dressed in leather armor painted white and splattered with blood. She had rinsed her hair and face, clearly, as the paint and blood there was mostly gone, although it remained in patchwork spots behind her ears and streaked in her hair. She was not as friendly as Kaedec had been. She didn’t spare him a greeting, simply turning on her heel and marching down the hall. Fenris followed, hoping that she had been informed that she was his new keeper. He followed in silent confusion as she went out of the manor proper and across the courtyard. He followed her as she led into the forest and down a steep ravine to where a narrow river cut its way through the jungle growth. 

She stipped off the knives strapped to her back and dropped them unceremoniously into Fenris’ arms, “Make yourself useful and hold these while I complete my transformation from warrior to nanny.” 

Fenris held the knives obediently, then her armor as well. When instructed, he turned around so she could strip to her underthings and rinse off. The process was quick and awkward, each of them stridently pretending the other did not exist. When she was sufficiently free of paint and re-dressed, she took her knives and armor back from Fenris.

“They didn’t tell me I was going to be nannying you until just after I got back from a raid. Sorry for the mess and the -well, everything- but I wasn’t going to spend the whole day covered in paint and old blood.” She paused as if expecting a response, then clarified, “This isn’t typically my job, but Arran says I should expand my social skills.” 

She rolled her eyes at Fenris’ continued silence,“As if making conversation with a stone will expand my social skills.”

He didn’t respond, she took a whiff of him and grimaced, “You smell like an old shoe. Feel free to wash if you want, I’ll look away.”

A bath in a river with the only person around pretending not to watch was the most privacy Fenris could remember having in his life, so he jumped at the chance. He stripped down, unbraided his hair, and waded into the river until the surface of the water met his narrow waist. The jungle was hot and moist, the air heavy with the smell of the earth, but the brook was cool and calm. He wasn’t certain if he could swim, he couldn’t remember ever having the opportunity to try. When he had bathed in Minrathous it had been a brisk, unpleasant, affair involving two cool buckets of rainwater, a rough strong-smelling soap and two other slaves. He missed the soap, but the absence of attendants and the opportunity to wash dirt and sweat out of his hair was wonderful. Hopeful that he had learned to do so in the past, he held his breath and dunked his head underwater, scrubbing at his hair until it was white again instead of a dingy grey. He came up for air with an undignified splash, but was confident he wouldn’t drown if he tried it again. He waded in further, until his feet barely held purchase on the silty bottom of the river. Hoping he could swim, he allowed himself to float and tread the water. To his surprise, his body remembered it. He let the water boey him for a moment, relaxing into the current. It was comfortable, like being flat on his back in Danarius’ bed, but better, so much better. He had never felt quite like this, like there was nowhere we was expected to be, like there was no one watching him to report back to his master. He looked up at a glimmer of sky through the tree cover, sighed, and cherished the moment of solitude. 

Knowing he couldn’t just lay in the water forever, he dunked himself again, scrubbing as best he could at the rest of his body. He took his time getting out of the water, shaking out his hair. He twisted the length of it around his fist and wrung it out, then secured it in a knot at the back of his head, up and out of the way. It was a small act of rebellion, Danarius hated it pulled up this way. The man had insisted that Fenris leave it long and braided away from his face so the lyrium on his forehead was exposed. For parties, it could be brushed back behind his ears, loose down his back. Days earlier, his hands in Fenis’ hair, Danarius had told him that they would cut it when they returned to Minrathos. The length was no longer in style. The magister’s voice was almost mournful when he spoke of it. Fenris had found himself wishing they had gotten it over with before they came to Seheron. Long hair only ever got in the way. 

He was unconcerned with his hair now, though. Four straight days of three square meals a day, no training, and now a bath? Fenris felt strong, energized, even good. He felt like he could run all the way to Fereldan, his hair wouldn’t weigh him down. Fighting the urge to stretch like a cat, he moved to pick up his clothes and regretfully dress. A hiss from his companion startled him. Eleida had turned and was looking at him, at his body, at his markings, “By the Black City, they’re everywhere. How could anyone-” 

Fenris jerked on the pants and tunic, momentary euphoria vanished, “You said you would turn away.”

“It’s on your forehead too,” She said, eyes wide, “I didn’t see it before, because of your hair.”

At least covering his markings was something his hair was good for, he pulled some of it down in front of his forehead to conceal the dots of lyrium there, quipping, “I shall endeavor to make myself more aesthetically pleasing.”

And now she was angry instead of concerned, “You know what I meant, don’t be obtuse.”

It was easier to handle her when she was angry than when she looked at him with pity and horror, so he made another attempt at baiting her, “I wasn’t aware I was supposed to read your mind as well as hold your armor and assist your bath, Ser. Would you have me pour the wine at dinner service as well?”

She threw up her hands, “You’re insufferable!” She stalked off, back toward the estate. Fenris trailed behind, tugging at his hair. 

This was how their relationship was to be, he supposed. Elieda’s skin was thin and his presence brought out a certain rawness in her. It was an odd feeling, the desire to provoke her. He wanted to scratch at that anger, pick away at it like a scab. Fenris was usually shy around people who could not control their emotions. In his experience they were as like to lash out as they were to laugh, as easy to enrage as they were to please. He was used to his master’s moods, placid like a great lake, steadily disapproving, always finding some fault, with only the rare peak of gentleness or wave of rage to surprise Fenris. Typically, unless a show needed to be made, Danarius had preferred not to shout, instead he hissed his threats into Fenris’ ear. He preferred to strike Fenris once, maybe just for the show of it, and to save the real punishment for behind closed doors when he could commit himself fully. Volatile people were not well-tolerated in the Imperium. It was expected that big emotions only occur in private, with only those you could trust. Only then could a person’s mask fall, only then the decorum of your role fall away and leave the man beneath. A Riviani apostate who had apprenticed under one of Danarius’ colleagues had once described Minrathos culture as “ironically Orlesian,” after a few glasses of wine. If a magister had acted the way Eleida had, Fenris would be avoidant, deferential, but he wasn’t. He wanted to poke the bear, to see if she would stalk off again, or if she would hit him. 

As they left the cover of trees and rejoined the community in the estate’s courtyard Eleida paused to allow Fenris to catch up. He hesitated to come within reach. She was in charge of him, was she not? Perhaps she wasn’t impotent after all, maybe she simply wanted an audience for when she took it upon herself to discipline him. He wasn’t sure if she was allowed to hurt him, or if he was allowed to defend himself. The rules of what she would tolerate, or even what the Fog Warriors would tolerate were not yet clear for him. Maybe he had already transgressed too far. 

He banished that fear from his mind. He would not be disciplined by her of all people. What right did any of these Fog Warriors have to compel him? They were escaped slaves and elves, most of them, Tal-vashoth and criminals the rest. Worse, Eleida was the least of any of them. She appeared to have little status, a common warrior, unlike Keadec, who Arran seemed to value. She had no strange power, none of the ancient magnetism that Arran wielded. She was no mage, no wealthy freed man, no great leader, nobody at all, he assured himself. Gathering his courage, he straightened his back and stepped within reach. She seemed oblivious to his hesitation, standing with a hip cocked, preoccupied with a fleck of blood on her beige shirt sleeve, picking at it with a nail. 

“Did Arrran give you anything to work on, or am I supposed to entertain you as well?” She asked.

“Excuse me?” He had been expecting some comment on their earlier altercation, but her anger at him had evaporated as if it had never been. 

“I suppose not. Sometimes if someone has a particular skill, he’ll ask them to help out. But considering your primary skill appears to be murder… I suppose he expects me to figure out how else you can contribute.” 

“I am at your disposal,” he said with no small amount of sarcasm. 

She looked up past him, at the sky, as if imploring the Maker for patience. Then, a flash of interest crossed her face, “I have a bit of an unconventional suggestion, if you’re up for it. Might you be interested in a bit of a battle?”

He was a bit taken aback, “You have fighting pits here?”  Fenris was familiar with the pits. Although Danarius himself wasn’t much of a gambler, his counterparts in the magisterium certainly had been, and the Archon himself had been a big supporter of the open-air arena battles that dominated Tevinter entertainment. Fenris himself had fought a few times, always at the request of one of Danarius’ benefactors higher up in the Senate. He had always enjoyed it, privately. Danarius had fussed over him beforehand, ensuring he ate and slept well, and complaining to anyone who would listen about the entitlement of magisters would seek to risk another man’s investments for sport. When Fenris inevitably tore the heart out of the poor blighter that they had set against him, Danrius had showered him with praise for his victory. He always enjoyed the opportunity to use his skills, even if it was just for entertainment. 

Eleida was irritated again, “I swear, for being born here, you think like such a Vint. Not fighting pits, we’re not savages. Just a friendly sparring match. In a training yard.”

He felt an irrational offense at the idea that he “thought like a Vint” but suppressed it. He wasn’t sure if he was allowed to agree to such a thing, but then again, he wasn’t sure of much. When Danarius returned for him, Fenris supposed he could add this to the list of things not to mention. Perhaps he would claim he was in the infirmary the entire time. Perhaps Eleida would find him his armor and blade. Their absence was just one more thing to explain to Danarius when he returned. Seeing the sound logic and the opportunity to do something he understood, Fenris aquesed, “I would welcome a chance to hone my skills.”

She seemed keyed up, an extra bounce in her step and swing to her arms as she led him across the courtyard to a shack. He knew there was an armory somewhere, although he doubted this was it. People were everywhere, bustling on errands, teasing and laughing with each other, pursuing crafts. There were certainly more than he thought he could fight on this own, at least sixty adults and a dozen or so unruly children. The estate had more amenities than he had expected of a rebel camp. The smithy was operational, staffed by a blacksmith and two apprentices. There were bakers, a tailor, and even a tavern tucked away in a space that clearly used to be a stable. He could even spot familiar faces. Keadec stood in the doorway of a low, ugly brown building with a man who appeared to be some sort of tanner. She took copious notes as he explained something, his face animated and fingers jabbing at old leathers. She spotted Fenris and smiled. He averted his eyes. Arran was about too, laughing with a few of the young women of the group, a sandy-haired child on his hip, and the glint of mischief in his eye. Arran didn’t notice him, for which Fenris was grateful. Gavitz, the irritable half-elf healer was crouched at the feet of a human child, examining a gash on their small foot. His face was grim and irritable, but his hands were gentle as he wrapped it in a bandage. 

The courtyard was crowded with rebels and squat ramshackle buildings, arranged in a mad cluster around a fire pit with logs for seating which seemed to serve as a main square. Eleida and Fenris cut across the crowd, dodging underfoot children and a goat or two on their way to the shack. It was a dingy and ill-maintained thing, haphazardly painted white. Unlike many of the buildings around, this one seemed to be an intentional part of the original estate, not cobbled together out of green wood and mud. The shed contained nothing of Fenris’ armor or blade- only blunted practice weapons and padded white armor. There was also a mess of cobwebs and dust, and a few singed man-shaped archery targets. Each of the targets was bloated with rainwater, one wore a set of bloodstained magister’s robes, another sported worn qunari pauldrons. Fenris looked away from the magister effigy. Eleida paid no mind, rummaging through the mess, grumbling to herself about organization. She managed to find two blunted daggers, which she passed to Fenris. He thought, unbidden, of how easy it would be to stab her while her back was turned, even with the blunted practice weapons. A foolish notion, he couldn’t kill her and escape the nearly four score of hardened warriors just outside, and he didn’t want to. It was better to wait for them to see the rationale behind ransoming him, or to escape later, when he was less guarded. 

“So what’s your poison, Fenris?” She turned back to him, and gestured at the ramshackle stack of weapons, “You had a sword last time, as I recall.”

“A broadsword.” His was around the camp somewhere, he was sure. It had been a gift from Danarius before they came to Seheron. Fenris missed the weight of it at his back. It was the only thing he had ever loved in his memory. 

“I don’t know if we have one for practice small enough for you, most of the elves here chose other weapons. You know, bows, mostly. The occasional dagger.”

“I can handle a standard size. I am stronger than I appear.”

It wasn’t a boast, but Eleida looked at him like he was showing off before resuming her shuffling, “Are you planning on using those tattoos to cheat, then?”

“I was not aware that using my own abilities counted as cheating,” He pretended to examine his nails, looking to appear nonchalant. It was another gesture copied from Danarius. He wasn’t sure how to appear casual without borrowing the mannerisms of the magister. 

She was wading into piles of junk now, snorting in amusement, “Oh, so you bought the lyrium and tattooed it onto yourself? I didn’t realize. You must be a wealthy lad.”

Fenris bent to assist sorting through a pile of practice weapons, finding many broken and splintered child-sized wooden swords, but nothing that could withstand his strength or the blunted daggers Eleida had produced for herself, “It’s no matter, I could beat you without them.”

“Doubtful. Last time we fought, you had the lyrium and a mage to help you, and if you haven’t noticed, I’m still alive.”

He spoke without thinking, testing the edge on an axe he had picked up- not nearly dull enough for what they had planned, “I will not be blamed for my master’s inept casting. If he failed to freeze you properly, that should not reflect upon me.” 

It dawned upon him slowly what he had said. He had criticised his master, mocked his ability. He had called im inept. His eyes widened. Within him, the compulsive need to apologize arose. His hands were still, back hunched, and his arms had unconsciously pulled in, as if to defend himself. He tried to remind himself that Danarius was not there, that Danarius would not know what he said, but he could hear his breathing growing rougher. He tried to squash the desire to grovel, to beg for her not to tell. His hands had gone from still to trembling. Nausea crept over him. What was he thinking saying something like that? What was he thinking even considering it?

“Fenris?” Eleida’ voice sounded far away, like she had left the shed, “Are you alright?”

He couldn’t respond. She repeated his name, “Fenris, can I touch you?” He couldn’t respond. She grasped his upper arm and pain shot through him. He didn’t make a sound, just gritted his teeth as she guided him by the arm to sit on a damp decaying chest. 

“Take deep breaths, put your head between your knees if you need to.” She rubbed circles into his shoulder, clearly intended to be soothing, but they only sent sparks of overwhelming sensation through his markings. He wanted to vomit. 

Fenris was spiraling. He knew he was speaking, but he could barely understand his own words. He knew he was begging her not to tell, only because he had done it before. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he hoped she didn’t understand Tevene. “I won’t tell, Fenris,” Her hands were off him now, the futility of the gesture becoming clear. She crouched down so she was at his eye level, “Look at me.”

He couldn’t. “Look at me,” Her voice was demanding now, he forced his eyes up, meeting her brown eyes with his green, “Take deep breaths. In through your nose, out through your mouth.” 

He tried. The air felt hot and thick like molasses, but he managed to get a few breaths in, silencing whatever noise had been coming from him. He kept at it, forcing the air in and out of his lungs the way he would in a battle gone on far too long. As his breathing returned to normal, she did not praise him, just met his gaze steadily, “Are you alright?”

It took him a moment to answer, “My apologies. I don’t know what came over me.”

“You don’t need to apologize for having a panic attack.” She was still crouching on the ground, a hand hovering over his knee, but not touching.

“A what?” He felt dizzy and confused, unsure of what had even happened. Had he thought Danarius was there to hear him? No. He was not irrational, he knew the magister was days away at least. Then why react like this? 

“A panic attack. You’ve just had one. I’ve seen it before. Do you want me to go get Kaedec? She’s better at this than I am.”

“No. Nobody else needs to see this.” He was shaken now. His body had never betrayed him like that, not over something so miniscule, “Was that some kind of magic? A spell?”

Sensing that her closeness was unwelcome and Fenris was coming out of the state he was in, she rolled up onto her feet and deposited herself on a nearby crate, “No, not magic. It’s something that happens in your mind. I don’t know if I could explain.”

“Try,” Fenris ordered, his hand pinched his forehead between his eyebrows, his mind swimming. 

She sighed, “It’s like… something bad happens to you, and when it does it makes a scar on your mind. Then, sometimes there’s this thing that inflames it like- like the weather does to an old scar? And in your mind, it hurts like when you got the first cut.” 

Fenris thought that sounded like magic, but he didn’t have the wherewithal to argue, “My mind has not been scarred.”

“So I’m to believe you’re the best treated slave in the Tevinter Imperium? Doubtful. Those markings alone are proof. They pain you, and it’s clear that mage sucks power out of them like you’re some kind of magic battery,” she said ‘mage’ like a curse, full of vitriol instead of reverence. 

“They’re an honor. I should be proud he thought I was strong enough to bear them,” he was only repeating what he had been told. He knew he could not explain to her why the markings were worth the pain they caused. He wasn’t sure he could articulate it to himself. 

Elieda stood, brushing her thighs off in a gesture Fenris had begun to interpret as a sign of frustration, “This was a bad idea anyway.” 

Fenris went to his feet a little shakily, “The fight? I can still- I’m not weak.”

“I didn’t say you were. I said it was a bad idea.” 

“I can still do this. I want to. You want to.” Fenris had never been told not to fight before, and he felt insulted. He could handle anything Eleida threw at him. 

“I don’t want to, maybe some other time.” She was leaving the shack now, blunted knives left abandoned on the ground. 

Fenris followed, anger in his eyes, bursting through the door to outside like a strong wind, snapping, “You’re a coward.”

She turned on him, fierce, choppy dark hair swinging out with the movement, scar twisting with her face in anger, “I am looking out for you. Stop fighting me, you insufferable child. Come on, we’re going to the kitchens.”

There was nothing he could do but follow. Despite his bravado he wasn’t really sure he could beat her now anyhow, his head felt wrong and there was still a frightened tightness in his chest. He couldn’t understand his own reaction. If Danarius or Hadrianna had been there to hear him say it, that reaction would’ve been appropriate. The right amount of groveling had saved him at least one beating. But Danarius and Hadrianna weren’t there. According to Eledia, he might never see them again. And that was a thought, wasn’t it? The tightness in his chest twisted at the concept. What if Danarius didn’t come back for him? What if he continued to pretend to be free for the rest of his life? The thought was in equal parts intoxicating and horrifying. He couldn’t think of it. Danarius’ return must only be a matter of time.

Eleida dragged him to the kitchens, where he was bolstered by a bowl of hot soup and a chunk of the freshest bread he had ever tasted. Eleida seemed to know the food had improved his mood, and acted smug about it after. The kitchen staff seemed glad to feed and overfeed him, refilling his bowl and offering to fill it again. A plump elven man insisted that Fenris needed ‘meat on his bones’ and foisted extra bread into his hands when he left. She treated him like he was a visiting relative, begrudgingly introducing him to her acquaintances. Most were elves, but there were a surprising number of Qunari and humans running about. Eleida had been right to think that few would welcome him with open arms. His name was met most often by a stiff nod. Many were understandably wary of the elf who had killed so many of their compatriots only days earlier. But more were welcoming, even gregarious. 

Fenris and Eleida sniped at each other for the rest of the day, sharing barbs. Fenris had never had this much conflict in a single day, and less than a week before he had literally been at war. She was easy to rile, even if she was hard for him to understand, and he felt himself inexorably drawn to irritate her. On some level, she reminded him of Hadriana, in that there was something in his very nature that set her off. Except, unlike Hadriana, she never did anything to him. No matter how he pushed, she didn’t strike him, she didn’t imprison him, deny his meals- she barely even insulted him. He would treat her in turns, like a magister, like a slave, like a child, just to see which would infuriate her most. She would get exasperated, she would storm away, she would call him insufferable, annoying, impossible. But she never said the words that would really hurt. She never sneered at him like Hadriana did, never called him a rattus, a knife-ear, worthless, ignorant, or stupid. He realized at some point that he was testing her boundaries. He knew, eventually, the facade would drop and the savagery would be revealed. He kept a close watch on her face as he pushed and prodded her, looking for a twist of expression, a twinge of vengeance to the set of her brow. He waited for the other shoe to drop. 

It didn’t. If anything, the more he pushed the softer she became. When a particularly spicy dish crossed his palette at dinner and he accused her of trying to kill a prisoner of war, she actually laughed. Not in the cruel way that Hadrianna had, when Fenris was so tired or hungry that he made a mistake and was punished. Eleida laughed in the way that the kitchen slaves in Minrathous had laughed when the garden produced vegetables shaped a bit like genitals, or the way Danarius’ guardsmen laughed when they heard the oft-repeated joke about the qunari walking into a tavern. He found himself smiling despite himself. He tried to feel mocked, to imagine the ire he should feel at some escaped slave laughing at him, but it failed to come. He found that her company was akin to the strange spicy dishes the Fog Warriors served- he was begrudgingly starting to like it. He said as much to Elieda hours later as they took wooden dishes from their dinner back to the kitchens from the dining room. 

She laughed at him again, a short, open-mouthed affair that puckered the scar on her face and lingered at her eyes after, “Did Arran tell you to say that?”

Fenris shook his head.

“More’s the pity. You should tell him. He’ll find it hilarious. He’s always said I’m an acquired taste,” She led Fenris down the stone hall. Two pairs of bare elven feet brushed the cold floor. 

Fenris wasn’t sure what to say to that, “When would I tell him? I don’t have an audience with him.”

“It doesn’t work that way, Fenris. You’ll just- see him- you know. You’ll see him around.” 

They passed a few more doors and a couple of vandalized portraits of men who Fenris assumed had been the former masters of the house, very little of the original art remained, but what did bore alterations. The horns and tails of desire demons tacked onto the portrait of a stuffy magister, eyes crossed out on the portrait of his wife, a whole face burnt out on another portrait further down the wall. Fenris took the time to put his thoughts together, “And if I ‘saw him around’ I’d be permitted to speak to him? I thought he was your leader.”

“I’m sure you’ve been told this before, but we don’t really work that way. He’s less of a leader and more of… a historian, I guess? Imagine if a historian, a bureaucrat and a brothel keeper’s brat had a baby, and then that baby grew up to join a rebellion. That’s Arran, essentially. He’s no more respectable than you or me,” She paused, “Well  _ maybe  _ he’s more respectable than you.”

Fenris couldn’t help it, he smiled at the jab and a strangled sound broke from his throat. A laugh, or as close to such as he could remember making. To his relief, Eleida didn’t mention it, just bumped a narrow shoulder against him as they walked. It didn’t even hurt. 

“You should see him actually do what he’s supposed to do if you want to understand,” she explained, “When we meet as a group, you’ll see him in his element and maybe you’ll understand why we don’t treat him like some kind of authority.” 

Fenris thought of the cold echoing magic he had felt in the kitchens, the sheer weight of ancient earthen pressure that Arran had carried, “I think I have seen him in his element. He was… formidable.” 

Eleida snorted dismissively, “You’re part of the pack already.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’ve got an opinion on Arran, everyone here does. Having a strong opinion on Arran is basically the only requirement to being a part of the group, it seems. You respect him, which I suppose makes sense, you are  _ new _ .” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you’ve never met another Fog Dancer. There are some folks here who don’t find Arran… respectable. Arran was basically just a trainee until you got here and the group split. Our last Fog Dancer was older, a woman, and she was raised with the warriors. That’s the expectation. Arran is a bit of a break with tradition, and he’s a former slave. Some of his ideas are a bit different than what people are used to.”

Fenris could tell she was phrasing things delicately. He thought back to Arran’s statements when they’d met about the power of hate, anger and revenge. Wasn’t that what rebellion was all about? What he had always been taught in Chantry services was that rebellion was born of rage and pride-demons both. He wanted to ask for clarification, to dig deeper, but they were already at the kitchens and they were bustling with activity. He wasn’t quite as comfortable speaking when he knew others could be listening. Young people were washing dishes as a group in a large soapy basin. The smells of cooking food and soap clung to the air, a heady scent that reminded Fenris of the Tevinter army camps he had stayed in with Danarius when they first came to the island. It was an oddly comforting scent, one that spoke to dozens of people with full bellies. 

Fenris deposited his dishes into the basin, to the vocal grumbling of a teenaged human who thought he was through with the washing. A qunari girl shoulder checked the human, laughing at his irritation. Fenris felt envy spark in his chest for a moment. He had noticed the fog warriors were always touching. An arm slung over shoulders, the slap of a palm on a bicep, the ruffling of hair. He had even seen kissing, the whole spectrum of it, from chaste and brotherly pecks to a pair of qunari kissing so deeply in a shadowy corner that Fenris had mistaken the shape of them for the hulking silhouette of a pride demon. Fenris wondered why. The slaves in Minrathos hadn’t been so free with their affections, neither had the Magisters, or even the few free men he’d seen. It was strange to be in the presence of so much affection, like a stranger trespassing in a family home. 

Keadec had treated him that way- like he was untouchable, made of glass. Eleida did not, she shoulder checked him like a brother, slapped his shoulder when she thought she was being funny. She had only hesitated a few times. Fenris wondered what it would be like to feel comfortable like that? To tease without an ulterior motive? To laugh just for its own sake? To not flinch at the casual touch of a friend? He let himself imagine it even though he knew even the imagining was a transgression, but it was warmth instead of fear that filled his chest. He imagined himself staying for years, becoming older. He thought of what his face might look like, bright with laughter, how his hand might feel patting another person on the back. Maybe it was alright for him to act like he was free. Maybe it would be okay to pretend that Danarius simply wasn’t coming, or that he wouldn’t be able to find Fenris through the fog. Maybe he could be one of them, at least until his illusions were broken. Somehow, that was an invigorating thought. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one took a lot of time, sorry, I'm beginning to get into a lot of stuff I didn't structure out as carefully so I worry I'm not as quick to get things out. Next chapter is a bit more well-planned so hopefully, that'll be out faster!


	5. Belonging

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris is happy, and that's a horrifying thought. Being happy will not stop Danarius from returning for him, and Fenris worries it will only make it worse when he does.

He was not used to feeling happy. In the last few days, Fenris had been given more freedom, allowed to be apart from Eleida for a few hours at a time. Things had eased, and Fenris had started to become useful to the tribe. He learned to skin and gut game for the kitchens, as well as finally beginning to train again, sparring with Eleida, Keadec, and a few of the other warriors when he could. On occasion, Arran would come to watch, even placing bets on Fenris with the surly butcher, Bones, who always bet against him. Fenris found himself walking away from sparring matches with his opponents, sharing meals with them, sometimes laughing. The warriors he fought called him “brother” and treated him like any other member of their number. Fenris found himself desperate for more of the camaraderie they offered, terrified to lose the affection he had been so long denied. He allowed himself to be touched, concealing his wince when the warriors ruffled his hair or hung off his shoulders. It hurt him to be touched, but he happily endured the pain to feel like he belonged. 

He looked forward to time spent with Eleida, who while acerbic and hot-headed, quickly became his first friend. As soon as they were allowed time to be apart, he began to crave her company, though he would never say it. Whenever she came to collect him from the kitchens or find him for some task, she would act put-upon, as if he burdened her with his presence. “Nannying yet again,” She would sigh dramatically, “Oh, Fenris, wouldn’t you prefer to contribute something rather than be babysat?” He knew she was false about it. That was the way she spoke, all exaggeration and pretend inconvenience, and he gave as good as he got. “I would, but the only way you stay out of trouble is if I provide you with something to occupy you. It’s a public service.” 

Company was sweet, but solitude was even sweeter. He had been permitted his own room to sleep in -even a bed that Fenris avoided like the plague, still afraid to sleep anywhere but the floor. He would go back to his small room at night, complete the stretching and exercises that had been required of him back in Minrathous, then curl up in a nest of sheets in the corner. Sometimes, he would find he was still smiling at some joke or event of the day when he closed his eyes. When he woke at the crack of dawn and ran around the perimeter of the estate, he found that he did it for the joy of moving his body, not the fear of punishment. The happiness he felt was overwhelming, like drink, or the high he felt when he had pushed his body past its breaking point. He wondered if this was what it was like to be in a family. He wondered if this was what it felt like to be in love. 

The feeling didn’t last too long. Fenris thought he knew better, but was foolish enough to think, to count the days he had been with the Fog Warriors. Eight days since his master had left him on the beach. The day Danarius was supposed to come for him had come and gone, but there had been no sign of the Magister. The Fog Warriors had been keeping a lookout for him, and there was no word that he was even on the island. He should feel safe, but he felt numb with fear. He did not even ask to be returned to the docks where Danarius had left him. He told himself that he knew he would be denied. Yet, he knew that the thought of going back to Danarius, armorless, without his sword and well-fed and treated by the Fog Warriors would mean spending the journey back to Minrathos starved on a short chain in his master’s cabin, and harsh punishment when he returned home. He had never done it before, knowing punishment delayed was punishment extended- but he sought to delay his return as long as possible. 

He spent the eighth day of his captivity on edge, ears pinned to his skull, shoulders hunched. He had slipped into old habits- what Elieda referred to as “bad habits.” He had trouble meeting her eyes, or the eyes of others, gaze bouncing anxiously to the woods, where he was sure his master would emerge any minute. 

They took lunch together as they often did, and Fenris was visibly lost in his thoughts. When she touched his shoulder to get his attention, he had dropped the dish he was holding. The ceramic had crashed to the floor and shattered. Just below the noise, Eleida heard him reflexively and timidly apologize. Not to her, but to his master. Fenris was preoccupied with his worry, losing two matches in training, and even refusing some of his meals. In Eleida’s opinion, this Fenris was a fry cry from the elf she had begun to befriend. He flinched from contact again, apologizing on instinct. Worse, his moods tended more toward melancholic and fearful than they did toward irritation or humor. She was used to the combative elf who responded to concerns about his well being with biting accusations or a sly misdirection, not the stoic and insistent, “I require nothing.” She couldn’t even bait him into arguing with her. When she teased him for noticing Arran and implied he was attracted to men with power, he simply ignored her. When she pulled at his braid like a child and told him that where she was from long hair was for girls, he nodded along. 

They had spent two days like that- a herculean feat of patience for Eleida- before she snapped at him, “Snap out of it, Fenris! What is bothering you?” They sat across from each other at the rough table Eleida kept in her suite. Her space was bigger than his, with two rooms instead of just one. She shared it with her wife -another elf called Jemma- and a child Jemma had bore when she was still serving in Quarinus. Both Jemma and the child were out, as they always were when Fenris visited. The child was young and found Fenris frightening, and Jemma did not care for any member of the male sex on principle. He and Eleida were supposed to be playing a game of Diamondback. Fenris hadn’t learned the rules until recently and it took his mind off his troubles to keep all the rules balanced in his mind. He considered concealing his feelings, but he knew better, Eleida would not hit him for speaking the truth. The worst she ever did was shout. 

“My master was supposed to return for me the day before yesterday.” He confessed, “I have never disobeyed this severely before.” 

“Are you afraid of what he’ll do to you if he comes?” She asked, pointedly looking at her cards instead of him. 

“It will be like the punishments he’s given me before, I suppose. It will simply be worse and longer. I worry-” He wasn’t sure how to explain it. It was his turn to play yet he couldn’t quite focus on his cards, “I worry when he comes I will not be able to return to him.”

Eleida gave him an incredulous look. He rephrased, “I worry that being here has changed me. That I have… diminished in quality. That I will be unable to serve him in the same way.”

Eleida scoffed, “Good. Fuck him. That ought to be your goal, Fenris, not your fear.”

Fenris didn’t understand. He thought he understood Eleida’s philosophy; that since he was as good as free, he ought to behave as a free man. Yet, what she said was incongruous with that. She was saying he should try to upset or hurt his master. She was saying he should choose to continue to resist, to act as a free man even when Danarius returned for him. It was a fool’s notion, a choice that got perfectly good slaves killed all the time back home. He couldn’t believe she’d suggested it, “What do you mean?”

Eleida looked him in the eye, “If you can’t be free, you should at the least try to spoil his fun. It’s what I did. Never regretted it.”

“I don’t understand. You didn’t want to be good? You didn’t try to please your master?” The concept was bewildering to him. He wanted to be excellent at everything, and even if she didn’t feel the same, avoiding pain was a good enough reason to work hard. 

“Oh, I did, when I was young and foolish. When I thought you could be happy as a slave if you only obeyed perfectly. But that’s a lie they tell you, Fenris. You can’t be happy as a slave, and if you think you are it’s a trick.”

Fenris was no longer maudlin, he knew she was wrong and was prepared to defend himself, “His standards are high, but I am his favorite. I would be foolish not to recognize my good fortune.”

Neither of them was playing diamondback now. Fenris still held his cards, but he did not look at them. Eleida’s cards had been placed face down on the table, one hand still over them, the other at her chin, thumb worrying at the scar that split her face. Her voice was sour like old milk, “A trick like all magisters perform. They’re liars, snakes, and every shred of kindness they show is just a set up to a cruel joke.”

She didn’t understand. He didn’t know why- the place for slaves in the Imperium had always been made clear to him. Perhaps no one had ever explained it to her, “My master says elves are like children, that we must be disciplined. It’s his duty to instruct me, so I can improve, become worthwhile. He said to think of my body like a muscle. A muscle must grow strong and the only way for it to grow is for it to work, to be torn and healed over and over until it is complete. Strength begins with pain, but it ends with utility, with power. It’s shameful that I’m here hiding from him. I should be grateful, not cowering like a child.”

“Then don’t cower!” She slapped her palm on the table, “But don’t be grateful either. There’s nothing to be grateful for. He’s lied to you. Look at yourself! Are you stronger now or when we found you on the beach? Which Fenris is stronger? The one who eats his fill? Tests his strength against his own kind? The one who has friends? Or is it the Fenris whose meals are forgotten? Who has to hurt himself to protect some idiot magister who can’t fend for himself? The one who is punished for nothing?”

He had told her too much of his life with Danarius, that much was clear, “You hear only the worst of what I have to say about him. He can be kind.”

Eleida stood, brushing herself off briskly and navigating across the room, pacing back and forth, “Stop apologizing for him. If he were sitting in front of me, he would not defend you.”

Fenris opened his mouth to argue, but could not think of what to say. Eleida would’ve spoken over him anyway, “I used to think like that. I used to think I could live off empty promises and scraps of affection. You guessed when we met that my master was a brothel keeper? You’re not wrong. I started as a weaver, then was sold to a brothel-keeper when I was a teenager. His name was Mallin. He was- well, he called himself liberati trash. I thought he was generous, kind, wonderful. We didn’t work when we were sick, we were fed well. He didn’t hit, though some of the clients did. He called me kind names. He asked before he touched me, though I never refused. I thought I loved him. I was in his service for only three years when he decided to sell the whole thing, the building, all the slaves, all of it. He wanted to leave Tevinter, buy a boat, and sail to Antiva with his brother.”

She sighed, running a frustrated hand through her short hair, pausing her pacing, “I didn’t want to be sold. I thought- well, I had hoped I might get him to see a reason to keep me. Maybe to take me with him. I thought maybe if I lowered my value, there would be no point in selling me. I thought he would want to keep me around if my price weren’t the difference between leaving and staying. So I-” she touched the scar where it split her nose, “I picked a foolish fight with a client I knew would react violently. He did exactly what I expected. He cut my face, a few other places as well for good measure. I knew I’d never be bought by another brothel-keeper. Look at me, I don’t even have the face to go back to weaving. I thought there was no way Mallin could make a profit on me. He didn’t even order me a healer, Fenris. He took one look at my face and knew it was a lost cause. He had me whipped for the first time since he’d bought me then he arranged to sell me to a magister for half a sovereign. And you know what happens to slaves sold that cheaply to mages.” 

Fenris was all too familiar. The only reason to buy a slave for that price is if you were content with very damaged goods. In the Imperium, it was known that only slaves intended for blood sacrifices were bought that way. He shuddered. 

She continued, “At first I was at a loss for why. I didn’t understand. I thought he must be confused or that a half-sovereign was somehow keeping him from leaving. It was the only reason I could come up with for why he would abandon me. I saw him several more times before I was sold. He looked at me with… nothing but disgust. I hated it, but instead of feeling sorry for myself, instead of asking myself how I could make it up to him, I chose to change. I got angry instead. I looked at it with new eyes. He was a bastard. He was fine with seeing me die. His affection was false, it had always been false. And I had just cost that lying, cheap, false bastard 50 sovereigns by destroying my value to him. And I tell you Fenris, from the bottom of my heart, there was nothing in the world more satisfying. Every time I look in a mirror I think about it, the look on his face when he saw me. I look at my face and this scar and I feel nothing but pride. I wasn’t like you, I couldn’t stick my hand into him and end his worthless life. But I could make him angry and I could drain his purse. So I drained it as much as I could, destroying property if I could, and refusing to work the way I had been instructed. Then I ran away, and I stole as much money and goods as I could on my way out. I don’t regret it. Not a whit. If that mage comes for you, I say piss on him and run away. If he catches you, break the chain and strangle him with it. Hurt him and don’t stop hurting him until you’ve hurt him more than he’s hurt you. That’s how we ought to treat magisters.”

She looked the way that Chantry brothers sometimes did like there was a fire set behind her eyes, blazing. She looked the way that Arran did, hands clasped around a frozen cup of tea and power looming behind him. She looked the way Fenris wanted to, strong, determined, whole. He saw the sense in her words. Somewhere in him, he knew that the way he had been treated was wrong. Some part of him knew that Danarius was not good for him, that his master did not care about him. Yet, if Danarius, the man who gave him the lyrium, the man who trained him, the man who had taught him everything he knew didn’t care for him, then whoever could? Eleida must have seen it on his face because she growled in frustration, “Stop being sad and start getting even, Fenris! Get angry at him, he deserves it. They all deserve it. Magic has poisoned you, the Magisters have not made you strong, they’ve destroyed the truest version of you. Get revenge!”

Fenris picked up his cards and played one, desperate for a distraction, “You do not understand. I was made for a purpose. It’s a fool’s errand to deny it. My master is powerful, even compared to my abilities. He will come for me eventually. If I remember what I am while I am here, I might spare myself some pain. I might even spare you and yours. My time here has been a kindness, but I do well to remember that it is temporary.”

Eleida dropped back into her chair with a thud, anger and helplessness in her eyes, “We will fight with you, Fenris, if you would only choose to fight,” she picked up her cards again, “You can’t run from this choice. There comes a time when you stop running, when you have to turn and face the tiger. But that is your choice, not mine.”

She beat him at diamondback. He should not have been surprised, he was distracted and he didn’t always understand the rules.

\--------

They didn’t speak about Danarius after that, not for three days. Fenris, for his part, did his best not to think about what she had said, but her words hunted after him, catching him unawares when he cut flesh from bone, or when he picked up a blunted blade to spar. He slept poorly, lying awake turning over what she had said, trying to find a fault. 

Worse, he found himself indulging in a habit he had worked hard to break; reliving the past. The longer he thought on it, the more injustices sprang to his mind, and he could no longer see the small kindnesses Danarius had shown him among the torrent of cruelty. What did it matter that Danarius once hand-fed him a fig pastry? After all, he had been denied so many meals. Which was more important; that Danarius had tortured him for asking questions about his past or that Fenris had been stubborn enough to press the issue? Which mattered more; the fact that Fenris sometimes was allowed to sleep warm in the Magister’s bed, or that most nights he lay on the stone floor next to Danarius’ boots? He remembered the high collar he had worn like a qunari mage. He remembered telling Danarius that he could not adequately fight in it. He remembered how he had been forced to train in the maker-damned thing to the mocking laughs of the guard. He thought of the handsome kitchen slave, Bennin, who had snuck Fenris bits of sliced apple and other good food in his porridge. He thought of how Danarius had caught Bennin flirting and smiling at Fenris and had the kitchen boy whipped and sold. The more he looked at his life, the more he was blind to all but the injustice in it. Eleida was right to say the scraps of kindness Danarius had offered had been tricks. 

He wasn’t used to the feeling that sat in his chest. He had expected it to be shame at his stupidity, or sadness, even. The actual emotion was one he had repressed since he was branded, one he had choked down, buried, and only allowed to trickle out in combat. He started to feel angry. It started small, the twinge of irritation at Hadrianna- an impulse he had never been quite able to quell. Then anger, then a simmering resentment that grew into hate. He was surprised how quickly his fear transformed itself into something purposeful, directed, righteous. Danarius was harder. While hate for Hadrianna had flared up, hot and wild like a brush fire, hate for his master had to be cultivated. He had to prune away the moments of affection and cultivate the violence, the indifference, the strife. It grew like the miniature trees some mages grew and sold in Tevinter, slow and with great care, from only a sprout of resentment. 

The process started as a solitary one. He would sit alone some nights, unable to sleep, ruminating on his enslavement. He tried to regain his camaraderie with the other warriors, controlling his instinct to flinch when touched, and trying to reach out on his own, to grasp a shoulder, to say “brother” back when it was said to him. He worked to joke, to give as good as he got from Eleida, even when he didn’t necessarily feel it. But more than anything he worked to become a fog warrior, to become absorbed into their ranks, to be seen as one of them. Perhaps if he was persistent enough, he could believe it himself. Maybe he could integrate, paint himself white, become one of them so thoroughly that when Danarius came for him, he wouldn’t be able to tell him apart. 

It took him a while to approach Eleida with his thoughts. She had been right, after all. He was proud, but not too proud to admit that. It took him days to speak to her about it, and when he did it was through gritted teeth over morning porridge, “You were right.”

She was sleepy in the mornings, and grumpy too, eyes barely open as she raised the spoon to her mouth, “I didn’t catch that.” 

“You. Were. Correct. About my Master.” He took a large bite to give himself an excuse not to speak any further.

Her sleepiness evaporated, eyes suddenly keen, “I knew you would see sense. What are you going to do?” 

“Nothing has changed, really. When he returns for me, I will go with him. I can not hope to remain here if he finds me. But…” He hesitated. 

“But?” Her face was intense.

“I do not wish for him to find me. I would like to stay, and, if I may, I would like to help.” 

Eleida took a smug sip of her tea before smirking, “Why, Fenris! Are you saying you want to help us filthy rebels to oust the Imperium? I thought you were a good slave!”

She made a move to ruffle his hair, and he slapped her hand away almost playfully, “Well, my friend, it appears you were mistaken.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally a lot longer, so it's being split into two chapters. I ended up rethinking a lot of how this was going to go so I had to do some major rewrites, and I'm not super confident on how it turned out. Sorry for my slow pace as always! All of your comments and kudos are so appreciated. Hopefully I'll be able to post again before the end of the week!


	6. Bonfire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris engages with some of the tribe's traditions, Eleida wants him to join.

Fenris was desperate to change his situation, eager to prove that he was worthy of trust. Eleida had dragged him out to see Arran in his “natural element” cajoling Fenris until he agreed to follow her. There were preparations happening everywhere, a blazing bonfire in the square, kegs rolled out onto the grounds and the Fog Warriors were crowded in one mass, laughing and boasting with each other. Unruly children scampered underfoot, rushing Keadec, who would catch the little ones around the waist to toss them high in the air and catch them, seemingly untiring. The space around the fire pit was full of laughter. Roughhousing youngsters made a mess of their clothes rolling in the dirt. Older folks tittered together under the shade of a lean-to. Fenris could smell cinnamon and smoke on the air. The faces of the fog warriors had become familiar to him, even many of their names sprang easily to his lips. There was Kellen and Corfe who assisted the butcher, arguing like they always did even as they attempted to hoist a cask of ale up onto a table. Tossing sticks into the fire pit were Iris and Nala- both archers who had worked closely with Eleida- the two were identical and sour-faced, speaking only to one another. Eleida’s wife stood in a group of women, listening intently to a story told by the blond elf child that Fenris often saw on Arran’s hip. The crowd had begun to close around the fire as it built up, chattering to each other in friendship. Fenris found himself too close to others, buffered on one side by Eleida and Bones the butcher, and on the other side by Keadec and a group of excitable children. As the fire built up, the sky darkened until the one light was from the fire, the stars and the moon. It was then that there was a ripple in the crowd as Arran pushed through. 

Arran was stipped to the waist and painted white in bold stripes, the contrast of brown skin and white lines uncannily familiar to Fenris. The paint formed a single stripe of white up each arm and leg, and another that ran up the center of his body, ending at his shock of blonde hair. He wore a collar, but it didn’t complete the circuit of his neck, broken clearly and obviously in a twist of metal at the hollow of his throat. A black stripe of paint circled each wrist and ankle, and around his waist was a ghostly-looking gauze skirt, flitting around his narrow thighs. His feet were bare and his hands empty. He was laughing in the crowd despite his unconventional dress, chatting with friends and admirers as he made his way toward the fire. Fenris couldn’t help but look at him. He should look silly. He should look the way Fenris felt when dressed up for a magister’s party, shameful, weak, out of place. But he didn’t. He looked like a masculine beauty, like the statues of dancers that Danarius had coveted, or the sketches of elven men proudly defending the tombs of their ancestors in a book he had seen in the college of Arcanists, or the kitchen boy back in Minrathous who had snuck Fenris crisp slices of apple in his porridge and whose gaze had made Fenris’ heart jump. Fenris couldn’t keep his eyes off Arran. The butcher scoffed when he saw the elf, “What a tart.” Fenris found himself thinking how the butcher might look with his heart outside his body. It might actually improve the man’s appearance. 

The butcher elbowed him, “We used to have a woman in that role,” he huffed, “It was a much better show to see that painted chest, I tell you.”

Fenris stepped out of reach, “Please don’t touch me.”

Eleida chuckled, “Don’t let Bones bother you. He just deeply loves breasts. You prefer men, Fenris?”

Fenris was looking at Arran again, answering automatically the way he had been taught, “I have no preferences.” 

Eleida rolled her eyes at him, as was her custom, “Sure, Fenris.”

He didn’t have to explain himself to her, he knew, so he didn’t, “Why is he dressed like that?”

“Some of it’s tradition. The rest is symbolic.”

Fenris suspected he could tell which parts, “The collar?”

“He kept it when he escaped, if you’ll believe it. The black paint is his addition as well. Arran’s a bit dramatic.” 

Fenris kind of liked the idea, actually. Somewhere in Minrathous, or on a boat on its way to Seheron was his own collar, silverite and engraved with lyrium runes. He wasn’t even sure if he would be capable of putting a hand on it even to destroy it, much less put it on. Arran regularly wearing the broken thing was an act of bravery. Especially since he bore the silvery-white throat scar of a slave whose collar was never removed, likely not until the day of his escape.

Eleida seemed to read his face, “You think it’s great, of course you do.”

“It’s not how it ought to be done,” the butcher explained, “He alters the dances. He says he’s sending a message, but the dances had messages before, and who knows how much you can change before things stop working correctly? My mother always said, you don’t mess with tradition, alchemy, magic, or her recipes, and I take that very seriously.”

Fenris was not a particular fan of tradition. He had never had any of his own, and what he had seen of it from others hadn’t impressed him. He would prefer things to be done well rather than be done as they always had been. However, the Fog Warriors were not his people and it wasn’t his place to question the way they did things. Yet he found his mouth opening anyway, “I find his perspective… enlightening.”

Eleida chose not to humor him with a response. Whatever was about to happen seemed to be starting anyhow, the crowd was hushed, and Arran was drawing closer to the place where the crowd broke. As he walked forward he began to speak, and Fenris recognized the story. He told of Tevinter’s invasion of the island, of the griffons that used to live there, of the rebellions that fought the Vints then the Qunari, and of the rebellions that would continue to fight, so long as the land was not free. Then he spoke of each of them, how they each served to continue to fight, to advance the rebellion with their own unique abilities. 

Fenris had heard this kind of thing before in Chantry service. Many a Chantry brother had preached that each being was special, unique in the eyes of the Maker. In Tevinter, the message had always been tinged with a reminder, “Every person, elf or man, slave or free, has a place and a purpose ordained by the Maker. To obey your earthly master is to obey the Maker, and to serve man is to serve His ends.” Fenris wondered if the rebels even worshiped the Maker. It seemed to him they worshipped the land and the magic held within it. The land was right there, under your feet, sustaining you and your tribe, while the Maker was distant, absent or dead. It was appealing to him, in an odd way, to worship a god who had not abandoned you, who was as plain to see as the ground you walked on and whose goals were scrutable. Fenris had been abandoned enough. As the young man spoke, a hum came up from behind him, it started with some of the children, eyes bright, clearly eager to get something started. The hum grew until it became a chant. It had the pattern of language, but he had never heard anything like it, the same syllables repeated, slow and low but growing faster and clearer. 

When the force of it became undeniable, Arran stepped out of the crowd. Nobody touched him, and an aura of intensity that bordered on rage swirled around him. He moved with purpose and his walk moved fluidly from walk to dance. The volume was growing louder, the chant overpowering the priest, who was shouting now, screaming about the spirits, the earth, the power contained within the land. There was stomping and clapping now, the hands and the feet of the tribe moving together. The pattern ought to be complicated, the rhythm alien, but Fenris didn’t even make the conscious decision to join them, he only found his arms and legs moving to keep time, as if enthralled, heart hammering in his chest. 

As the chant escalated, Arran whirled. He was ethereal in his movement. The contrast between the sounds of the chanting, the femininity of the dance and the outfit only served highlight his masculine frame and gave him an air of control. He somehow seemed to be more physically embodied than everything else, like it was the world slipping off into the fade, and only Arran that remained grounded to reality. It was then that the fog rolled in- not so much rolled in as snapped in. Fenris inhaled and there was no fog, when he exhaled he couldn’t see Arran, or even Elieda next to him. The air was uncomfortably cold for only a moment, and it began to warm as Fenris’ eyes started to adjust. At first, he could only see movement, then shapes. It was as if Arran had become the shape of three people, dancing in sync with each other. Each of them was painted with a distinct pattern, two in red, the smallest in white. Their movements were fast, violent, intense, limbs colliding with each other with intent, the slap of a palm against a bicep, the clash of one thigh against another. A figure Fenris could now make out to be a woman struck out at the smallest of the three figures, hitting him in the chest. The figure did not strike back, but when she aimed another hit as his face, he caught her hand and held it. She screamed, long and loud, a broken sound that Fenris could not understand, the sound mingling with the chanting. The smaller figure did not let go, turned away from her, hand still grasped tight in his but his attention preoccupied with the third shadow. This one was large, and clearly a harder fight than the first, the smaller shadow took half a dozen hits, each looking more and more like an attack and less like a dance. But the larger shadow went for the throat and the smaller one caught the hand again, eliciting another scream mingling with all the other sounds. The noise was a crescendo building and building in volume and then, with a choked sound, it was bitten off. The air was clear, fog gone and Fenris could see around him again. Eleida and the butcher were still to his left, looking on with held breath and the little elf girl was to his right, tears in her eyes, fearful curiosity written on her face. 

In front of him was Arran, a hand grasped in each of his. There were clear bruises already forming on his neck, chest and arms. His lip was split and his nose was bleeding. He was breathing heavily, as were the two people on either side of him. The woman was human, and the man Qunari, they were crouched as if in pain, red stripes shining like blood on their skin. As Fenris watched, they shifted as if drying in front of him. The color shifted, lightening through a brickish brown to the same white as Arran’s. There was a moment of intense, loaded silence before the human woman laughed, high and joyous, tossing her arms around Arran. The qunari was also pulled summarily into the embrace. The intensity leeched out of Arran and the other dancers, devolving into giddy laughter, the crowd joining in, laughing and cheering. 

“What in the void was that?” Fenris breathed, confused, “Are they alright?” 

It was clear they were not. Two of Arran’s fingers were twisted backward at impossible angles, and the qunari man looked dizzy, huge body swaying. The woman’s laugh had twisted into a sob, though all three of the dancers were grinning. In the crowd, casks were being opened with axes and fried confections were being passed into the hands of the children. The mood was giddy. 

“They’ve been welcomed into the tribe as adults,” said Eleida, “They might be sore for a few days, but this is how things are done.” 

Fenris looked at the dancers, Arran was the youngest looking of them, in his early twenties at the oldest. The qunari was mature, clearly at last eight years older than Arran, if not ten, and the human woman was in her early thirties, “They seem adults to me.” 

Danarius had considered Fenris a grown man when he was fifteen. He had considered himself lucky the master considered himself a child for even that long. To think some were considered children until they were twenty or thirty- “They’re being inducted into the tribe as adults,” Elieda explained, “Most of the people who come to us aren’t part of the tribe initially, this is how we bring them in, acknowledge that they’re a part of us, show that they have the privileges of adulthood.” 

Fenris thought on it for a moment and scowled, “You’re saying you consider me a child because I have not done this dance?” 

“I consider you not an adult member of the tribe, yes.”

“I am a man grown.” 

Eleida smiled, “You’re a bainwashed ex-slave who tried to murder me less than a week ago. Maybe set your sights a bit lower. There are other ways to be considered an adult too, but this is considered the most traditional. Some chose to forgo it because their bodies are weak or they prefer to demonstrate their value some other way. Trust is earned, Fenris.” 

That was an interesting thought. Eleida was already walking off toward the ale when Fenris caught her wrist, “Then let me earn it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I said this would be done this week and lo and behold! It's done on Monday! Thanks for all your support! Also, I have a tumblr now: https://cciarants.tumblr.com/


	7. A Toppled Bridge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris is out with the fog warriors, sword in hand. But an unexpected meeting results in violence.

Fenris had never been drunk before. There had been plenty of wine available on Danarius' estate, but little had crossed Fenris' lips. There was an expectation that rotgut stuff kept in the kitchen was going to be stolen by servants and slaves (in fact, it was deliberately kept accessible to avoid thefts of the rarer vintages). However, Fenris' position as a bodyguard meant it was never really safe for him to be intoxicated.

Now, in the heat of the celebratory bonfire, Fenris felt incredible. He and Eleida had been drinking to each other's health, prosperity and future. Drinking had led to dancing. Dancing had led to more drinking. Fenris' kept pressing the back of his hand to his cheek, feeling the heat there and wondering if it were possible to be sunburnt by the fire or if this was just the effect drink had on him. His muscles felt relaxed and loose and his mind felt pleasantly wooly. As he celebrated his own commitment to the Fog Warriors and the two new members he had just seen inducted, the crowd began to grow thinner and thinner. He found fewer and fewer children about, and as the night wore on the fire slowly died, fewer of the elder members as well. The truly drunk stumbled their way home and even Arran and the new inductees were swept away to receive healing. Soon, as the fire crackled into embers, the dancing had stopped and the only people left about were the people he had gotten to know from sparring. The lot was bright-eyed from drink but serious - looking. Young folks mostly, few older than their early forties but none younger than seventeen.

As the crowd got smaller and more homogeneous, the energy changed as well. Where earlier in the night, the air had been full of giddy celebration, it had matured into something determined and intense. Fenris' heart fluttered in his chest with excitement. The whole camp was asleep but for the people surrounding the fire, and each that stood there seemed to be holding their breath, waiting for something.

There were eleven of them left. One of the younger folk, an intense-faced young elf with bottle green eyes and brown skin was giving Fenris a pointed look like he ought to be leaving. However, Eleida grabbed the younger elf by the elbow and steered him away, hissing something in his ear. He had no such qualms about being quiet though, scoffing indignantly and gesturing at Fenris, "How come he gets to go?!" Elieda shook his shoulder a little roughly and muttered something else dark and inaudible. The younger elf turned away and stormed off in irritation, sparing no small amount of glares for Fenris.

Eleida slung an arm over Fenris' shoulders, he didn't even flinch. She guided him into the rest of the group. There were few people there who were entirely sober, but none were too drunk either. The whole group seemed pleasantly buzzed and prime to take a risk. They had crowded around Pela, an elven woman with soft black hair that grew in a close-shorn velvety fuzz and dark skin and eyes. Fenris knew her to be preternaturally quick with a sword and a smile. She spoke as quickly as she fought, now in a hushed tone as other warriors loomed over her seated position, listening intently.

"-It's not guaranteed," she continued, "But it should be relatively unguarded this time of night, and if we could destroy it quickly-"

Kernan, another elf Fenris recognized from sparring, interrupted her, "We could disrupt their supply lines for a few days. But, even better! We could redirect them through Dayvelis village. We could easily redistribute their supplies from there. Takes the Vints through much more vulnerable territory."

A scrawny Qunari man Fenris recalled vaguely being called "Axe" or "Hammer" or something similar laughed softly to himself, thudding Pela on the shoulder with a massive palm. He spoke just loud enough for everyone to hear, "It would be such a shame to see our Tevinter friends robbed! These roving bands of thieves have gotten so out of control lately." A dark chuckle made its way around the gathered group.

Eleida's arm was still slung around Fenris', shoulders and everyone seemed to notice the two of them at once. To Fenris' relief, six smiles split the faces of the gathered warriors and only two showed somewhat wary looks instead. "Is he coming?" asked a shadowed figure that looked like one of the bow hunters that brought meat into the kitchens each morning. Eleida just nodded. "Is he ready?" This time the question came from one of the older elves, an excited-looking mage called Yan. Fenris responded to this question with a confidence that was all wine, "Yes."

There was jubilation then, so much jostling and shoulder patting and congratulations that Fenris thought his heart may beat through his ear drums. His lungs were hot like he had just run a mile and he felt energized, giddy, ready.

Pela grinned at him, a mouth full of sharp white teeth, "Welcome to the team, Fenris. Let's go hobble some magisters."

The plan was either very simple, very foolhardy or not yet entirely decided upon, but nonetheless, the ten of them slipped silently out of the camp a quarter hour later. Each of them to a man was dressed in night black. Slung across his back, Fenris' sword was a familiar weight. Elieda had broken into a chest in the infirmary to return it to him. They were both grinning but silent as they walked side by side like siblings. The group was tossing a wine skin back and forth, keeping everyones blood thick with liquid courage. Fenris noticed that the veterans were drinking considerably less and he slowed his own consumption to stave off a frightening feeling of lost control. By the time Pela- who was leasing the group- gestured stiff armed for them to stop, Fenris' mind had cleared somewhat and the sky had reached its darkest point.

Night was different out here in the forest. In Minrathos, magic streetlamps lit the roads, and the sounds of human activity were ever-present. Somehow ten people on a jungle trail were drowned out by the sounds of the jungle itself. Thousands of small frogs created a deafening noise and below it, other animals could be heard; the skittering of something in the underbrush, the screeching of lemurs up in trees, and, at one harrowing moment, the distant and distinctive roar of a far-off dragon.

In the shadows, Pela waved them closer to hear her plan. They moved as one unit, closing in on her to hear her whispered idea. The great stone bridge just behind the tree line was a staple of Tevinter troop movements ever since they had started occupying this part of the island. The Quanri had built the thing, but they hadn't been focused on this part of the island as an area of strategic importance. In their absence, the Tevinter army had taken the bridge and were now using it to transport goods, slaves and personnel with relatively low risk. The plan simply was to destroy the bridge. The weather was on their side, with rainy season due to make alternate routes impossible within a matter of days, driving them to the village Dayvelis. Dayvelis was a sympathetic village and the perfect place to skim Tevinter supplies off of their shipments, harass and inconvenience their soldiers, and generally weaken the morale and effectiveness of their army. The bridge was guarded, but not overly so. Besides, guards could be fooled, and guided away. The goal was to slow the Tevinter army to a crawl for as long as they could. Everyone had a task and split into three teams. Fenris was helping to set explosive charges on the south side of the bridge. Another team was set to distracting the guards, and the third to setting charges on the north side of the bridge. His job was to swim across the river with his companions, protect Elieda and Yan as they set charges, swim back to the North side, then guard Yan while he cast the spells needed to detonate the charges. Simple enough, and if everything went according to plan, Fenris wouldn't have to do much of anything besides watch. It was simple enough to wade into the water and submerge, hoping the guards wouldn't notice their approach. Things were smooth sailing as their co-conspirators tempted the guards away and Fenris' team snuck across the water. Eleida managed two of the four ingredient bundles they had to place and Fanris was beginning to think his first mission as a Fog Warrior would be complete with no incident, when they heard the tell tale sound of approaching hooves from the south. The guards heard too, apparently, because whatever chase the other team had led them on didn't keep their attention, and they were back at the bridges' head. Fenris, Eleida and Yan froze, although the dark underside of the bridge was likely to conceal them to all but the most attentive onlookers. It was the silence that they were concerned about. The cavernous underside of the bridge amplified whispers and footsteps. The three of them could clearly hear the guards greeting the carriage driver and its passenger, so it was safe to assume that the Vints on the bridge could hear them just as well. Breath held, heart pumping and backs pressed up against the cold stone, the three elves below the south side of the bridge could do nothing but listen.

The carriage driver had provided some papers to the guards confirming that they had a right to pass, but they were now talking to the passenger. A guard laughed at something just out of Fenris' earshot, but the passengers reply was sardonic and quick, "Well, I suppose the horned bastards do make for good labor. Perhaps they'll build us something similar in Minrathos when this is all over."

Fenris recognized the voice and his stomach twisted with fear and relief. It wasn't his master, it wasn't a magister at all. It was an Altus mage Fenris recognized from his time in the war. He strained to listen better, to confirm the suspicion. He caught the man's name, Altus Viennus. Fenris could picture his face in his mind. Red hair and freckles, youthful, bright and twisted with sadism. Danarius was friendly toward him. Viennus had been famous for working Tevinter recruits to exhaustion, and the magisters always commented how "irresponsible" he was with the slaves. The faces of his companions showed that Viennus was known outside of the particular camp Fenris had been in, Yan looked particularly murderous. A guard clearly knew Viennus and the conversation on the bridge dragged. Fearing the loss of the cover of darkness and anxious to place the final charges, they began to move as quietly as they could forward. The stone they walked on was over water now, a lazy and murky river that did nothing to hide the sounds they made as they shuffled further under. The third charge had to be placed further up, out of the reach of any of the elves. Fenris was the strongest and the tallest of the three, so it fell on him to hoist Eleida up so she could place the charge. There was just one left, at the other end of the bridge. After that, they would need to slip into the water once again. Fenris would argue with Eleida later if they had tipped off the guard when she climbed off his shoulders and absently kicked a rock into the river with a loud and unmistakable plop, or, when looking down at the spreading ripples and realizing their misfortune, Fenris had shook his head and sworn, "Kaffas!" at full volume. Either way, there was a commotion from above them, and the sound of drawn swords. The elves sprinted to the last charge setting location in a blind panic. Eleida set it quickly, hands shaking as a guards' footsteps drew closer. Fenris greeted him with a hand through the sternum, pulling out his heart and tossing it aside. The three of them ran at full tilt out from the bridge and toward the water. Eleida was the first in, wading up to her waist before the male elves could catch up. However, before she could duck under, the surface of the water snapped into ice, immobilizing her. Fenris wheeled around to find the source of the spell. Leaning over the side of the bridge , grinning, robes whipping about his boyish frame was Altus Viennus. Fenris' mind was entirely blank, but there was a hot rage and the remnants of wine burning through him. Drawing his blade with a roar of anger, he began to sprint up the embankment to the Altus mage. He cut his way through the second guard first, meeting him midway up and colliding blades with such force that the guard fumbled, and Fenris cut him in a gory slash from neck to ribs. The guard could only gurgle before his body weight fell slack and he tumbled into the murky water below. An ice spell turned the dirt under Fenris' feet cold and slick, but he struggled over it, dodging an attempted lightning strike and a sloppy life drain spell in the process. Below him, Yan was counter-casting, hurling balls of gold fire at the Altus mage. Eleida had used some flask or another to free herself from the ice and was wading back to the shore. She was shouting for the two other elves to go to the water and try to escape, but neither seemed to hear. Yan's face was furious and his shouting was incoherent. By contrast, Fenris was deadly silent, calm and determined, nothing but the hot blood in his ears to keep him tethered to his body. The commotion had aroused the attention of the other guards on the bridge. A full squad of ten was charging from the center and north of the bridge, as well as lookouts from further down the road. But they were too far away to assist when Fenris reached the Altus mage. There was a moment of pause when the mage and the elf saw each other. Recognition flashed across Viennus' face, the fire at his hands died and his reactive laugh sounded choked, "I know you. You're Danarius' boy. The magister will be so pleased. He'll be-"

It was faster to tear out someone's trachea than their heart if what you wanted was for them to shut up. Viennus was dead on the ground before Fenris knew that he had killed him. His consciousness felt a beat behind his actions as he stared at the corpse. His eyes still watched Viennus' lips as they mouthed the words he was unable to speak. It was Yan's joyous shouting from below that spurred Fenris to move. He sprinted back down the embankment, seizing Yan by the arm and dragging him toward the water. If they were quick, they could still make it out of the sight of the other bridge guards and under the water without being spotted. That was, if Yan would stop celebrating. He was tossing his arms in the air and shouting, trying to hug Fenris, his eyes wild. Exasperated and terrified, Fenris clamped a hand over his mouth, man handling him into the water. "Be quiet. Quiet, " he muttered instantly. It was the cold of the water that broke Yan out of his jubilation, shaking himself until he was clear headed. The three elves assumed stone silence once again, Eleida visibly stormy. They each slipped below the water and swam as far as they could under the surface. When Fenris surfaced, after Yan but before Eleida, the guards were frantically searching in the wrong direction, clearly led off by a distraction from another team of fog warriors. When they reached the north bank, the three elves shook off the excess water. Yan's face was ecstatic as he seized Fenris by the tops of his arms, tugging him round and round in a skipping circle. Gleefully he chanted, "Dead! Dead! Another dead Altus! Wonderful! Wonderful!"

Eleida scowled at him, rubbing her hand rapidly over her short hair in a spray of river water, "How about you finish your job before congratulating him on his?"

Yan didn't deflate at all, flapping his hands in a fit of joyful motion, "Of course, of course!"

He held his staff out, eyebrows knitting in concentration, and a green shower of sparks erupted onto the sky west of the bridge. Seconds later, a duplicate shower appeared on the east. The shadowed silhouettes of the guards in the distance began to move more frantically, seeing the disturbance of the sky. "That's the signal," Yan grinned, "I'm going to set it off now. A big beautiful light show."

His staff came up and six distinct pops, each with an accompanying flash, rang out from the south side of the bridge, then six from the north. Then, like, it had never been stable in the first place, the whole structure simply crumbled into the river. It took several of the guards with it, but there were many more who simply scattered, running out from the mouth of the bridge and beginning the search of the woods for the culprits in earnest.

It wasn't safe to talk after that. They had to be both quick and quiet. The Vints moved slowly and loudly through the forest, and the fog warriors were quicker, quieter and savvier, but they couldn't risk getting caught, or worse, followed back to the encampment. It was an hour of careful, soundless walking before they were silently joined by the three person squad who had taken care of the north side of the bridge. And then, one by one, the remaining four joined the party, headed home. When the danger seemed past, the wineskins started making the rounds again, tossed from hand to hand. Fenris did not partake this time. Eventually, as the wine ran freer and shoulders relaxed, lips became looser. First whispers, and as the river faded into the distance, chat and joking. The news of who Fenris had slew and how traveled among the small group, and many of his companions spared him an encouraging word or slap on the back.

Fenris barely felt it. His mind was elsewhere, dwelling on the Altus mage. Fenris did not partake of the wine nor the celebration. He could hardly hear the congratulations spoken to him over the hammering of his heart and the ringing in his ears. What in the void had he done? A dead Altus and a ruined bridge. Was this what his master's favorite had become? Was this what he had been made for? It was a betrayal. He was a traitor, and Danarius was coming to get him, expecting him to still be the same. If Danarius found him, he'd be so angry and disappointed. Maybe the dead Altus would be the last straw and he would kill Fenris, rip the lyrium from his corpse and start again with a better slave. After all, that was where the lyrium in Fenris' flesh had come from. The corpses of failed experiments had given up their lyrium to make him, and now that he had so thoroughly failed his master he would be recycled as well. As the sky lightened and Fenris' thoughts returned to the same idea over and over again, it became less of a theory and more of a certainty. If his master found him, he'd certainly be killed or at least... remade. He couldn't let that happen, he simply would not die for his master's pursuit of perfection, not anymore.

The wineskin was tossed over his head and he caught it, and drained about half before tossing it back. Based on what the Altus had said, it sounded like Danarius was looking for him, but it was unlikely the mage would greet him with open arms. At least, not once he saw what Fenris had done. His stomach rolled at the thought of Danarius coming across evidence of his betrayal, seeing the corpse of the Altus or the guards with a neat hole through their chests, marking them as Fenris' handiwork.

He started when Eleida placed a hand on his shoulder. She met his eyes with a serious look. They were nearing camp now, and the sky had lightened to a pale and misty morning pink. She led him away from the group silently. The two elves moved together through the brush on the outskirts of camp, Eleida guiding him through secluded areas to the place where she lived. Her partner and child were gone on early morning errands, she lit a fire in the small sitting area and stuck the kettle on.

She stepped behind a dressing partition out of sight and threw the sopping wet blacks over it onto the floor. Fenris stood for a minute or so, awkwardly dripping onto the worn Navarran rug. She emerged in rumpled but dry linen clothes, looking more relaxed and a bit less weary. Fenris took the opportunity and slipped behind the partition himself. Left on a wooden chair for him was a set of similar linens, a bit too short for him but perfectly serviceable. He lay his sword gently on the ground to undress and redress but took it with him when he stepped out from behind the partition. Dry clothes had relaxed him a bit as well, and for once the absence of armor felt comforting rather than revealing.

Eleida sat on the straight backed wooden chair she always occupied when he visited, her slender hands wrapped around a hot cup of spiced tea, "There's a whetstone and dry cloth in the cabinet over there." She gestured, then thunked her head down onto the table, clearly worn out. Fenris fetched the objects from the cabinet, along with a bottle of sword oil he found tucked behind them. Eleida had her daggers out on the table. He took a cloth for her as well. He sat, Eleida slid a second cup of tea across to him, which he took with gratitude. For a while, they simply cleaned their blades and drank the tea in silence. Fenris hadn't even noticed he had a headache until it began to subside. After a time, Eleida let out a sigh and tipped back in her chair, sheathing her long knives, "Bit of a shitshow hunh?"

"If the goal was to destroy the bridge, this mission was a success. If it was to do it smoothly..." Fenris trailed off. He wasn't sure what she wanted from him. She seemed sad somehow, low morning light breaking in the slit of a window behind her and obscuring her face in shadow." I was hoping it would be an easy one. In and out. They're usually easy."

Fenris just nodded. She kept on, "I don't think we've ever run into an Altus before. Not ever. Not in the eight years I've been here."

There was more silence then. Fenris didn't even nod. Eleida seemed to be putting her thoughts together. After a few moments. She met his eyes, "Fenris, you have to know, I would have never asked you to come along if I'd known there was even a possibility there would be an Altus mage. They're usually so easy to keep tabs on. They travel so slowly and... they have a... a whole entourage most of the time. You have to understand-"

"It's fine." Now it was him who wouldn't meet her eyes.

"It's not. Fenris, this is important. I regret not knowing what we were getting into, and I'm sorry for that. But- I- What I'm trying to say is, I don't regret you being there. If it weren't for you-"

He cut her off, "You wouldn't have been caught."

"No! We wouldn't have survived. What I'm trying to say is that you killed a blighted Altus mage, Fenris!"

He wanted to deny it but the dried blood was still under his fingernails. So he didn't say anything.

"You put your hand right through him. This is why we need you Fenris. Arran doesn't want to pressure you, but that's nug shite. You can't just settle down and be a drunk or a cook's boy. You have power, and power gives you a responsibility to do the right thing. I know you want to help and I don't want you to think that this whole thing- I don't want you to feel like it went south and like you shouldn't help us. You're still needed. We need your help," She pushed herself up then. Frustrated, she went to the fire and topped off her cup and Fenris' with hot water from the kettle.

He rolled the hot cup between his palms for a moment. He hadn't expected her to want him to continue helping them, but her speech wasn't really at the forefront of his mind. Instead was the face of the Altus mage, blood dripping down the chin, lips producing a gurgling choke but mouthing out the soundless words, 'Arriving shortly.'

He said then, before his brain had really caught up with his mouth, "Eleida, the Altus said something to me. When I killed him."

She froze.

"He said that...My M- that Danarius would be pleased to see me there. That he'd be arriving soon."

"He knew you?"

Fenris nodded, "We've met."

She nodded slowly, "Are you sure that's what he said?"

"I only saw his lips move. I had already-" He made a gesture like tearing out a throat, "-killed him."

"Did he say anything about the fog warriors? Our location?"

"Nothing."

She sat back down, draining her cup in a single loud gulp, "He can't find us Fenris-"

"He's a MAGISTER!"

"Magisters have tried before. Unless you know something we don't, he can't reach you here."

"This gives you no pause?!"

"I didn't say that. You're impossible to talk to when it comes to this Magister of yours."

He scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest in irritation.

She continued, "It's troubling that the Altus knew you. And it's worrying that your Magister is so near, but he won't find you here. We just will engage with the Vints less until he gives up and leaves."

Fenris was sure Danarius would not leave. "As a favor to me, at least tell Arran about this."

She seemed to turn it over in her mind, "If I do you'll come with us again?"

He nodded. She stuck out a hand. They shook. A deal was a deal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise I do work on this! It's just been slower going! Sorry.


	8. Rainy Season

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris is certain Danarius is coming. He's the only one. Arran decides to take some precautions to protect the Fog Warriors and Fenris.

Eleida and Fenris tracked down Arran in the infirmary before the morning was done. After a night of rest Arran looked somehow even more haggard and beaten. A bruise darkened his cheek, darkening the brand there, several of his fingers were splinted together into a mass of white cloth and Gravtiz the healer was fussing over him. Arran's expression was pinched as he pressed a damp cloth in his good hand to his split lip. Fenris was surprised to see the sandy-haired child he remembered from the ceremony sitting cross-legged on a cot. She looked unhurt, but her blue eyes were puffy and her face was blotchy and red. The two new members were absent, apparently Arran had gotten the worst of the injuries.

Arran looked more tired than Fenris had ever seen him, and the impression only worsened as Eleida explained where the warriors had been last night. The girl on the cot, however, was rapt with attention as Eleida described the way they had set the charges, how they had been caught by the guards and the Altus mage. When Eleida described the way Fenris had dispatched the Altus mage, she interrupted, eyes shining with interest, "You put your HAND through him?! Can you show me? "

Fenris shifted, uncomfortable. Arran seemed to remember the girl was there all at once , "Lessa, this isn't an appropriate conversation for you. Go get breakfast. Bring some back here too, if you please."

Her face went red and stormy, "But Papa, I want to know what happened!"

"Ilessa. I didn't ask for an argument. You have been up all night and I think I've been very patient. You said you wanted to be helpful. Help by fetching breakfast."

To Fenris' surprise, Ilessa looked to Gravtiz for confirmation. Her stubborn little face was set but her eyes were welling with tears. The gruff healer made an attempt at a smile, "Go on, lass. Food helps the healing go faster."

Ilessa slid off the cot and left quickly. She was in tears. Arran took a big swig of water offered by Gravtiz, "My daughter, Ilessa," Arran gestured at the closing door, "She hasn't slept and this is the third crying fit she's had. She refuses to acknowledge she's only seven. The kitchen folks will know her and send her to bed, ancestors bless them."

Gravtiz excused himself as well, closing the door softly behind him once Ilessa was gone. Eleida gave the rest of the story, quickly recapping what the Altus said at the bridge. Arran flopped back onto the cot, dramatically and winced at the sudden motion. Wrapped in bandages and clearly exhausted, he looked young, too young to be a leader, too young to be a father. And yet, there he was, the same confident young elf Fenris had known, carrying the fate of an entire community on his narrow shoulders. He spoke from his absurd position, lying flat on his back with his legs still crossed tailor style in front of him, "Well, I have to be honest, much of what you've told me is ominous. Eleida, I do wish you'd consult me about these expeditions. While the bridge is a strategic win..." He trailed off.

"You would have stopped us." Eleida said, unrepentant, "Or at least you wouldn't have let Fenris come. He deserves-"

Arran interrupted her in irritation, sitting bolt upright to fix her with a glare, "Does it ever occur to you that I might have reasons for my decisions? That you can trust me? Fenris has grown, but he is not a Fog Warrior. Allow him time to be a person before you expect him to become an agent in our cause."

Eleida glowered and Fenris could feel his face heat. In the past, he was used to people talking about him like he wasn't there but now it made him uncomfortable. He felt oddly powerless to do anything but observe, frozen.

Arran read the tension in the room, sighing in irritation. Arran locked eyes with Fenris, "Only weeks ago, you were demanding to return to Danarius."

Fenris hesitated, "I-"

Arran held him in his gaze, "If he came here, could you kill him? If he threatened us would you fight?"

"My Master is powerful-"

Arran threw up a battered hand in frustration and winced at the motion, "Can you even say his name?"

Fenris paused, and steeled himself, "My- M- Magister Danarius is powerful. If he comes for me... I don't... I don't know if I could..."

The fog dancer pressed him, "Could you kill a magister, Fenris? Any magister?"

Fenris' heart was trying to escape his chest, "I- it's not so simple."

Elieda broke in, fiercely, teeth gritted, "He can do it, Arran! He's proved it already. There is a dead Altus in the river. That's proof enough."

Both Fenris and Arran looked unsure now, trepidation clear on the faces of both elves.

"Regardless," Arran said, voice firm, "This news is worrying and serious. I'll have to go today to check the perimeter, make sure that we're as concealed as possible. If the magister is close, we'd do well to limit the amount of raids we make on the Vints. We can't risk being followed back."

Eleida's mouth hung open, aghast, "But we just set them up!"

"And someone else will take advantage of that." His voice was cold and so was the room, "We can't risk detection. And we especially can't risk the Magister knowing Fenris is here-"

"But-"

The walls felt like they were closing in, and Fenris could swear he heard the roots of the forest straining closer to the infirmary as if to hear. Arran's anger seemed to bring the whole forest in close and Fenris was beginning to feel claustrophobic.

"No raids. Not on Tevinters. It's not safe. You can terrorize the Qunari if you're so desperate for violence." Arran looked haggard but intense. His face was twisted like he was struggling to hold something back. And there was a flicker of light behind his eyes.

Eleida was about to say something else, face twisting snidely into the shape of an insult when thunder boomed from overheard, startling her and Fenris. The sound of pouring rain was deafening.

"That's that, then," Elieda spat, taking the rain as some kind of declaration. She grabbed Fenris by the wrist, sending an arching stab of pain through his arm and tugged him out of the infirmary and up the stairs into the pouring rain.

Elieda had her traditional reaction to disappointing news: directed and purposeful rage. She rounded on Fenris as soon as they were out of Arran's earshot, "Why couldn't you just say it?!"

Fenris didn't know how to respond, so he didn't. He scuffed a bare foot across the muddy ground and avoided her hot gaze.

Her hands tossed up in the air, flinging droplets and she paced as she ranted at him, "Why can't you understand that you'll only be free by killing him? What else is there for you but to revenge yourself on him? I don't understand! Why do you even want this? What's the point in becoming one of us if it's not to be a part of the rebellion? Why would you want to be a part of the rebellion if you can't even rebel against Danarius? "

He flinched at the name. He couldn't help it. This set her off further, "Are you afraid of us? Is that it? Are you trying to replace belonging to him with-"

"NO." He cut her off. He couldn't let that train of thought continue. He was certain it wasn't right, but it chafed at some deeper insecurity.

"Then WHAT? Then WHY? I-" She was shouting at him now, in full view. They both seemed to realize it at once. Whatever else she was about to say, she bit her tongue and chose her words carefully, hissing them through her teeth, "I like you, Fenris, but Maker be damned, I don't understand you a wit. I can't talk to you about this right now. I'm going home."

He didn't follow when she stomped off. For a while he just stood in the rain where she had left him. Then he steeled himself and walked off across the estate's garden. Elieda wasn't coming back for him. No one was. For the first time in his memory, Fenris looked around himself and wrote off the whole day. He slunk back to his room and proceeded to indulge in a whole day of fitful sleeping.

Though Danarius weighed heavy on Fenris' mind, it was the rain that became his primary antagonist for a time. Although sometimes the mornings were relatively dry and there were certainly days without a torrential downpour, for three more weeks the rain was unavoidable and ever-present. Everything was wet and Fenris seemed to be the only one too bothered. The rainy season seemed to bring most of the Fog Warriors excitement and opportunity, as the adverse weather slowed Tevinter and Qunari troops to a near standstill.

Instead of gathering in stagnant puddles, much of the rainwater was whisked away in drainage ditches that Fenris hadn't even noticed until they had become necessary. Holloring children played in the shallow ones, while parents kept a watchful eye on the deep ditches which led out to the river and filled with faster more dangerous water. The adults had plenty to do although no real raids were made on the nearby Tevinters, artisans and laborers set to building traps and inconveniences and tools for sabotage. In the dead of night blackclad rouges would slip out of the encampment to set obstacles in the path of the Tevinter forces, driving them toward Dayvelis village. Although no one directly attacked the Tevinters, raids did take place on the Qunari to the east. Eleida joined each and every one of them.

She was avoiding him, always absent on raids or tucked away with her spouse and child. He refused to trail off after her begging for attention. That was pathetic, even for him. Besides, trailing after her all the way to a raid might put everyone in more danger. So he found someone else to bother. At first he tried Keadec, who despite the horns and her sheer height, intimidated him less than the other option. He managed to keep up with her for a day or two, taking his meals with her and trying to insert himself into her daily tasks. However, her errands seemed to involve a lot of writing and record taking that he couldn't understand. She was savvy and seemed to catch on to him quickly, sending him on little errands that necessitated dealing with unfamiliar people and expanding his social circle. Worse, when it became clear that Fenris was unlettered, her eyes lit up and she produced a learner's slate and chalk from her bag and began to try to teach him a rhyme that would help him to remember the order and sound of each letter. Intimidated and unsure if this was knowledge he was allowed to have, Fenris chose a different target.

Following Arran around was much more within Fenris' experience. It wasn't like being around Eleida, and he found he missed her sorely. He and Eleida had an easy friendship where they could snipe at each other freely. When he was around Arran he often felt like he was simultaneously in the presence of village slattern and a head of state. He was never sure how to behave and Arran seemed delighted by it, keeping both flirtation and that odd spiritual power in play when they spoke. It reminded him much more of the odd games that magisters played with each other, gently sussing out their feelings and their level of power with gentle teasing and probing questions.

Sometimes Arran would stretch with intention and expose a bit of his stomach, or make a suggestive comment. When he did, his eyes would drift to Fenris. Fenris tried not to look at him, and tried to suppress the lurch in his stomach when Arran didn't avert his eyes.

It was stranger yet to see Arran with his daughter. She was with him often, hanging off his back, scolding him for being rough with his broken fingers, imitating him like a mummer when his back was turned. She seemed to be the only person who treated Arran with less respect than Eleida. Apart from his frustration the night of the ceremony, Arran met Lessa's disrespect with nothing but fondness. His eyes shone with pride when she stood up to him and he laughed at her impressions harder than anyone. Fenris couldn't imagine either of them as slaves.

Fenris had taken to bringing Arran's meals when the dancer didn't show up in the kitchens in the morning. Usually he could be found near the perimeter of the encampment, sat on a big rock covered from the rain by the branches of a massive tree, just watching the jungle. When Arran didn't come to the kitchens, Fenris would wait to eat breakfast until they could eat together.

When Fenris brought him breakfast on a blessedly dry morning at the big rock for the third time in a week, Arran smiled and patted a space next to him. Fenris settled there. The two elves sat in silence for a while eating, hot bowls of porridge in one hand, spoons in the other.

Fenris' concentration was on Arran's hands. They seemed normal, and they bore no burns, no cuts, none of the marks Fenris had come to associate with mages. Yet he had seen him frost over that tea, and the first large rainstorm that had hit the camp hadn't set well with Fenris either. Arran was simply watching the jungle, eyes focused and brows knit together in concern. The question bubbled at the back of Fenris' throat, but questions were difficult to ask. Danarius had never really allowed them, and even now they made him itch. Questions were a sign that you could not anticipate your master's needs, or that you were too stupid to understand the situation, and Fenris did not like to feel vulnerable in that way.

He simply stared up into the tree's canopy, watching the way the leaves cut the cloudy mid morning daylight into a thousand triangles of light and shadow. After a minute or two of gathering his mettle he asked the question, though he half expected a slap, "Are you a mage?"

Arran looked at him, no flirtation in his face, "What would make you say that?"

The seriousness of his face nearly made Fenris drop the question. Danarius had had that look once or twice and the result had never shook out in Fenris' favor. But Arran was nothing like Danarius... unless he was a mage. If he was a mage then the two had something in common. He scraped the last two cold bites of porridge into his mouth before he responded, "The tea cup. When we first met. And the storm last week."

Arran nodded, eyes on the jungle again, "I don't carry a staff and I've never dreamed of demons. I am not a mage as far as I know."

"How do you do it, then? It looks like magic to me, and I have seen enough of magic to know it by sight." Fenris was looking at his own hands now. They weren't a mage's hands either, yet they held as much power.

Arran had clearly been looking in the same place. He reached out to take Fenris' hand, but hesitated hovering just over Fenris' flesh but not touching him. "You would know. But you would also understand that one can be touched by magic without being a mage."

Fenris nodded once. Solemn. He did not move his hand away. Bravely, and ever so gently, Arran placed his hand on Fenris'. The pain was there, but Fenris endured it, remaining still. Arran was looking at him with a peculiar expression.

"Do you feel safe here, Fenris?"

It was a peculiar question. One Fenris had never considered before. He tried to recall a time when he had felt safe. He could remember rare occasions months and years ago when the fire would flicker low in Danarius' rooms in Minrathous, and it became clear that his master had fallen asleep over his books. Back then, Fenris' shoulders had relaxed then and his stance had loosened, but had that really been safety? Even then he had always been vigilant for the possibility of an assassination attempt and every time his master had stirred, Fenris had stood stock still, hoping the mage wouldn't wake.

"I don't know what you mean." He confessed, moving his hand away in a way that attempted to be casual.

Arran pretended not to notice, "Do you sleep well at night here? Do you feel as if you can choose the things you want to do? Do you worry that you will be hurt?"

For a moment, Fenris forgot to be intimidated by Arran's power and shot the smaller elf a scathing look, "I'm not a child. I have no use for your coddling."

Arran laughed, "Well, you're not afraid of me, that's good at least."

Fenris leaned back on his elbows, legs out in front of him, sighing, "I imagine I seem combative. If so, I apologize."

Arran waved him off, hand less graceful for the presence of splinted fingers, "No apology necessary."

The resulting silence dragged until Fenris felt compelled to fill it. "I don't wish to appear ungrateful. I am appreciative of all you have done for me- what all of you have done for me."

Arrans look was knowing, "But?"

Fenris squared his shoulders, "But your rebellion is suicide. If the Quanri and the Magisters weren't so busy fighting each other, you would have been destroyed long ago..." He paused to collect his thoughts, "We know my master is near. That should mark the end of my time here. If you wish to protect your people-"

Arran's tone was hot, his words clipped, "Our people, Fenris. You're one of us. Which is exactly why we won't give you up."

Fenris pressed, "We will all die, Arran. If you make him come here to collect me, he will execute every single one of you, man, woman, and child. You, your daughter, Eleida, Keadec, everyone, you'll all be dead. It would be nothing to him."

Arran's expression was dark and his voice held anger, "I won't-"

Fenris spoke over him, "If you don't want me returned to the war effort, I understand. Send me back with my throat cut. I wouldn't resist. As long as he has the Lyrium in my flesh, he will leave. Arran, please-"

"I said NO." Arran struck the flat of his palm against the rock and the earth beneath them seemed to jerk. The once clear sky above them was now cloudy and cold, but Fenris didn't notice. He had folded in on himself, becoming smaller, his legs pulled into his chest, ears pinned close and arms protective.

"I'm sorry. Please," Fenris' voice was barely more than a whisper.

The air still seemed to the energy of rage and magic but Arran had gone from angry to concerned in an instant, "Sorry, sorry, I shouldn't have shouted. Fenris, are you okay?"

Fenris grabbed Arran's wrist in a vice grip, his eyes unfocused, breath caught in his chest. That's when the rain came again, ice cold compared to the warm air. Arran clasped Fenris' wrist in return and pulled him to his feet. Fenris followed him blindly, letting the sensation of the cold rain bring him back to the present.

When he came back to himself, he was sat inside, in a room he had never seen before. Clutched in his hands was a hot cup of tea and around his shoulders was a blanket. Arran was hovering over him, eyebrows knit together in concern. Arran looked stripped of the majesty that sometimes draped itself around him and it struck Fenris again how young the other elf was.

"Are you alright? I'm sorry, I shouldn't have shouted. I know better, " Arran was fretting now, hands hovering but not touching, "Do you need a healer?"

"I'm fine, " Fenris deflected, "It's nothing."

Where Eleida had refused to take his deflection for an answer, Arran collapsed back into an old creaky armchair, apparently relieved, "Kaffas, you scared me, Fenris."

"My apologies." With Arran no longer hovering in front of him, Fenris could take in the room. It was a small, messy sitting room with a gated off fireplace and two fat lumpy chairs. An adult size and child sized bed roll were rolled up and tucked away in a corner behind a battered looking writing desk strewn with sloppy papers. An ill-made stuffed animal shaped roughly like a griffon was placed proudly on top of the desk. What surprised Fenris the most was the sheer amount of writing. There were at least two full bookshelves stuffed full of books, scrolls and loose papers. Tacked- or drawn directly onto- the walls at regular intervals were child's drawings labeled with text Fenris didn't understand.

"Where are we?" he asked, taken aback.

"This is where I live- not that Lessa and I are ever really here," he looked sheepish, "She's taken on my bad habits, unfortunately, always running about and never resting."

Fenris was still focused on the papers, "Was this a study?"

"Yes. I believe so. We tried to rescue some of the books from around the estate. I had hoped Lessa would learn..." He trailed off, standing to examine some of Lessa's artwork, a fond smile on his face, "Well, in any event, she's picked up some reading and writing."

"Incredible, she's so young," Fenris couldn't hide his interest.

Arran leaned against the fireplace, "According to Keadec, being young makes it easier. My own efforts to learn have been much less successful. Can't train an old slave on new tasks, as they say."

Fenris frowned.

"Drink your tea," Arran ordered, "It has herbs in it, to soothe anxiety according to Gavitz."

Fenris obeyed. Even in the semi-dark of the study and with the confidence of leadership somehow missing in the intimacy of his home, Arran still commanded respect somehow, and there was something adjacent to magic that kept Fenris' attention. The tea did help somehow, and as Fenris recovered, he watched Arran build himself back up as well. His stance straightened, his expression became at first more guarded, then a calm, confident and flirtatious mask went on over that. By the time Fenris' glass was empty, each elf was in their own armor. Arran slipped back to his chair gracefully, and Fenris met his eyes with false confidence.

"I think you might have made a few good points back there, Fenris, " He smiled, "I forget you can be both pretty and clever."

Fenris didn't bother to laugh at the flirtation that would normally make him chuckle and simply waited for Arran to continue.

"I'm not going to ask to leave, or maker forbid, kill you. But... I take your magister very seriously. And you're right that we're in danger so long as he's searching for you. If he is searching for you. I have a possible solution, if you'll hear it?"

Fenris nodded.

"I think most of our people should leave us for a time. Take in with one of our sister groups nearby. Just until your Magister gets tired of looking or gets himself killed. Or until we can confirm he's not actually here. Then they can come back. In the meantime, we can fortify a position here... Just in case."

Fenris was still concerned, "So you think it's possible he may find us here."

Arran stretched nervously, a graceful arm went up, then tucked behind his head. He repeated the motion on the other side before he answered, "It shouldn't be possible. We're protected here, but..."

"But?" Fenris pressed.

"I'm not as experienced as my predecessor. And I worry... I see signs that... That there are weaknesses in my protections."

"What weaknesses?"

Arran hesitated again, looking nervous, "I'm concerned you'll panic."

Fenris stood to pace, "I'm panicking now!" His chest was full of a cold dread.

"I've found some signs of magical prodding. It shouldn't be possible. No one outside of the fog warriors should be able

to find this place."

Fenris felt sick. Danarius must know where he was. Fenris could feel his master's eyes on him, somehow, pinning him, watching. The pacing was helping. His heart rate was high and he was hyper-conscious of his breathing but he was still in control. He was still in control except his eyes were wet and his face was warm and his hands shook.

"So he has come," Fenris' voice was choked.

"Not necessarily! It could be anything. It could be other groups who don't know we're here! Or another mage? We get Dalish through here infrequently. And apostates! Or I could simply be misreading the signs. It could be anything, Fenris."

Fenris was tense, shoulders sharp and braced. Arran continued, "I've heard no reports that he's even on Scheron, Fenris. And we've been paying attention, too! It's just as likely that he's not here at all and that Altus was just trying to frighten you. We're only being cautious. That's all."

Fenris was wishing desperately for the weight of his blade on his back, the security of the plate in his chest. He took a step away, turning from Arran to continue his pacing. Arran stepped forward, gripping the top of Fenris' arm, under the short sleeve of his shirt where Danarius pulled mana from him. When the familiar pull from the Lyrium didn't come, Fenris slid to the floor. Arran was quiet, whatever he had been about to say caught before he could say it.

"You can't stay here if he's coming. You all need to leave. It's not worth it." Fenris muttered.

Arran was in his face now, crouched down, eyes blazing, "You're worth it. You're worth defending."

Fenris moved to shake his head but Arran was too close. The dancer slid even closer then. He moved slowly until his branded cheek rested against Fenris' and his arms wrapped around him, holding the taller elf tight. It hurt. It hurt in a way that stopped Fenris' breath, that tensed his muscles, in a way that made him afraid. But it hurt less than going without. The closeness was worth it and as he acclimated to the warmth of Arran's embrace, the pain faded into the background. Eventually, Fenris reached up and held him back. They didn't talk. They just existed like that for a time, sharing comfort.

When Fenris left, Lessa's bags had been packed for a trip, and the rooms Arran occupied with his daughter had been tidied. Fenris stood in the doorframe, feeling vulnerable in his linen clothes, skin still warm from Arran's closeness. Their eyes met. Arran pulled him down by the back of the neck, Fenris relaxed enough to bend so Arran could kiss him firmly on his closed mouth. Arran closed the door and neither of them spoke of it again.

Later, at night alone in his room, Fenris pressed his fingers against his lips. They were warm. He dwelled on it. He thought of the way Arran had looked at him, what Arran must have wanted. He thought on the way things might have gone if Fenris weren't so cautious. If Arran's power didn't frighten him. It wouldn't leave him. He couldn't pinpoint the moment he fell asleep, but he did pinpoint the conclusion he reached.

When he woke, he put on his armor and placed his reclaimed blade at his back. The linens were folded and put away. He would not open the drawer again, and he would not think on yesterday. It had all been a moment of weakness and he could not afford to be weak again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the somewhat disconnected chapter. I had a lot of feelings about Arran, but they were hard to put down on paper. Thanks for your patience, all! Slow and steady work is happening and I really appreciate your comments and feedback! Bringing me so much joy during quarantine.


	9. Fog Warrior Whites

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eleida needs Fenris' help, but there's more danger than either of them expected.

To Fenris’ surprise, Eleida tracked him down two days later. She caught him outside the training yard. He had been sparring a human mage, Harlow, who kept trying to pull from Fenris’ lyrium whenever his mana was exhausted. Fenris wasn’t 100% certain Harlow could even accomplish such a thing, but the threat of a draining kept him out of arm’s reach. Eleida had been leaning on the fence separating the training yard from the rest of the estate. She gave him a quick look up and down, noting that he wore his old armor, “Good. You’re already dressed. Put these on over your armor,” She tossed him a pile of Fog Warrior whites. 

He caught the whites against his breastplate, “What are these for?” 

“We need you. Come on.” She walked off toward the treeline.

“Wait,” he was struggling into the white gambison, “I thought you were angry with me.” 

“Still am,” She said, back still turned, half-obscured by the trees. But she waited for him to slide on the trousers before she continued into the forest. He counted that as a kind of endorsement. 

“Where are we going?” he asked, trailing her into the trees. 

She gave him an irritable look, and for once he focused less on her scar and more on her big orange elven eyes. They were oddly wet and red. It occurred to Fenris that she might have been crying, “I thought you were afraid to ask questions. Weren’t you polite at some point? I seem to recall.” 

Fenris scoffed, “That’s where you’re mistaken. I’ve never been polite to you.”

She laughed, and something in her whole countenance changed, “True.” Something clicked and their tension over the last few weeks evaporated. Her shoulders relaxed and she paused so that Fenris could catch up all the way. 

“I’m sorry,” He confessed, “You were right about me. I am afraid.” 

He hadn’t really realized it until he said it out loud, but he was terrified in a way he had never been before. He had always thrown himself into battle with little thought and less anxiety. All he had ever had to lose was his life- or maybe Danarius’. It wasn’t much either way. Now there was so much more on the line. Eleida’s life. Keadec’s. Arran’s. The lives of their children. Their families and friends. Fenris’ friends. They were all at risk if Fenris didn’t do what was right.

“I should’ve been… more understanding.” Eleida said, “You’ve been here less than two months. My expectations are… well. I was being unreasonable.”

Fenris didn’t think so. Whenever his anxiety lessened a bit he could see very clearly what Eleida’s perspective was. He could see the pattern of humiliation and oppression that had led him to this place. He could see the way his master had twisted his loyalty into something destructive and dark. And occasionally, in the small hours of the morning, or when he was sufficiently drunk, he could see the path to justice. Sometimes he could even feel it. He could feel it now, surrounded by the forest- by his home- he met her eyes with ferocity, “I am not going to disappoint you next time.”

She smiled, but there was something sad in it, “It’s a process, Fenris. I’m not disappointed in you. Just… if he’s coming, if he’s really coming, let’s all try not to die, alright? My wife is already extremely angry with me. I can’t imagine what she’d do if your Magister murdered me.” 

He wasn’t sure if he was meant to laugh so he settled for a grimace. They stood shoulder to shoulder again, the wet green-brown of the forest surrounding and embracing them. He understood for a fleeting moment why the Fog Warriors called each other “brother” and “sister.” She had forgiven him so easily. In the comfort of that acceptance and in the humid embrace of the trees, it felt briefly like they stood equal as siblings before the parent Scheheron itself. He felt an uncomfortable swell of affection for the moody elf who had become his closest friend, and ever so gently he nudged his shoulder against hers. She smiled but said nothing of it. 

They walked together for a time while Eleida filled him in on what had been going on. Her wife, Mara, was not happy to be sent away with their child if Eleida wasn’t coming too, and was particularly distressed that Eleida was staying behind to protect Fenris. He supposed it made sense. He had never been close with Mara and she had always viewed him with a small amount of suspicion. It seemed his presence was splitting up everyone’s families. Arran had seen his daughter off the night before. Eleida’s wife and child had left that morning. Yan had gleefully slapped his teen sons on the shoulders as they piled morosely into the caravan heading out of the estate. It made Fenris incredibly guilty to see people leaving their homes, dividing their families to protect him. Many of those who he had split up didn’t even like or trust him, yet they were divided because of his presence. He didn’t deserve it. He opened his mouth to say as much, but Eleida had already moved on. 

She pressed a small jar of white paint into his palm, “Cover any exposed skin with this. Trust me, we’re going to need it.”

“What’s the plan?” He asked, three fingers in the paint. He coated his hands, ears and face generously.

“We need you,” She said simply, “There’s a berrasaad to the West we’ve been hassling for a bit, but we think some of our former associates might’ve gone viddathari.”

Fenris winced. That wasn’t good for a secretive structure like the Fog Warriors. If the defectors to the Qunari knew the locations of rebel bases or even how to look for them, the Qunari could deal a serious blow. 

Eleida continued, “Problem is, they’ve brought in a saarebas. I think they know that they’ve got some people with information, finally, and they want to protect it.”

Fenris couldn’t help it, he was excited, “You want me to kill a saarebas?”

She looked surprised, “I was actually hoping you’d phase through the barriers they’ve put up and take out the handler. You can take out the saarebas directly?”

Fenris was certain he could, “As long as no one tries to drain the lyrium from me, I should be able to. I’ve done it before, and back then Master was still using me to power his spells.”

“Danarius,” She corrected

“Yes… “ saying his name was more frightening than the saarebas was, “Danarius was still using me to power his spells. Under my own power? It should be possible.” 

Eleida looked like this was the best she had heard in months, “If you can do it, I’d be honored to cover you. To watch your back.” 

The word “brother” was unspoken but it hung in the air between them. They met the rest of the raiding team in a clearing. It was a cool and moody mid-afternoon with plenty of natural mist to assist the alchemy of fog creation. The group was larger and considerably more sober than the first raiding party Fenris had participated in. To his surprise, there wasn’t a single mage among them. The closest thing was Arran, who winked lasciviously at Fenris from the shadow of a great big tree. Fenris coughed a laugh, glad for the fog warrior white face paint that hid his blush. 

Eleida clapped her hands together in excitement, rigourously rubbing her palms, “Alright everyone, new plan. Who’s excited to kill a saarebas?” 

\----------------------------------------

Fenris was excited to see that the Fog Warriors operated even better in the daylight, sober, and with their Fog Dancer. The Qunari kith they were targeting was ominously close to their encampment, and it took them less time than Fenris had expected to get to a place close enough to see the camp full of Stens. He had been curious to see how the fog was created, and had tried to stick close to Arran to see how it worked. Eleida had given him a look and directed him off toward a group of rogues, solidly away from Arran’s secret work. He knew the fog was closely guarded, but it stung to be separated from the mystery that intrigued him. The sting didn’t last, however. He recognized most of the people Eleida had directed him to. Kernan and Axe from his first raid stood grinning at him from faces of white paint, and several of the kitchen hands Basil, Kitterage, and Zella were similarly painted and each equipped with bows. Axe slapped Fenris on the shoulder, the gambeson prevented him from even feeling it, “We’ll be covering you, lad. Well, us and Eleida. The rest of them are after the informants- and whoever else gets in the way. But we’re going to be taking on the big one.”

“Very exciting stuff,” Basil said, eagerly, “We’ve never even engaged one. We just try to target the handler when the fog comes in.” 

“Are you sure you can do it?” asked Zella skeptically, “They pack quite the punch.”

Fenris was certain he could. They had given him six people to defend him. He couldn’t think about it too long. Six people willing to help him do this thing that he had always been expected to do alone. There was something solid in his throat and he swallowed around it to answer, “I have done it before. And without such quality assistance. We will succeed.” 

The excitement was palpable. When Arran came around to check and make sure everyone was ready and prepared before he brought the fog in, he brushed his soft, uncalloused fingertips against Fenris’ bare wrist, sending a shiver through the taller elf he couldn’t suppress. He was starting to believe that the day was a dream. He had Eleida’s approval again, the respect of the Fog Warriors, and now Arran’s unprompted touch. He felt as if the Maker’s favor was with him. There was fire in his chest.

They had time to review the state of things on the field below, but Fenris and his six protectors were focused on only one thing- the high-collared qunari Saarebas. In Fenris’ experience, there were two effective strategies to taking out a Qunari mage. The first was often taken by Tevinter forces, and apparently by the Fog Warriors. If you simply killed the handler- the saarebas would often respond by killing themselves. This, in Fenris’ experience, was extremely foolish. The saarebas fought hardest when you targeted their handler. Worse, the explosive fervor with which the saarebas ended its own life often took out your whole team. It was exactly what Fenris was expected to do if his master were killed in battle, end his own life as quickly as he could -so long as he took out his master’s murderer in the process. That understood, it was best to take out the saarebas themself as quickly and cleanly as possible. The problem was the saarebas were quick, strong, powerful and had no sense of self-preservation. Dangerous thing indeed.

The fog rolled in as quick as a blink, but it didn’t matter, Fenris and his team knew exactly where they were going. The saarebas was visible contrasted against the white, but the fog warriors were not. Fenris was the first to strike a blow on the saarebas, stepping out of the fog in a flash of blue. He knew to imitate a rouge’s style when confronting them, only staying close long enough to do damage. That was much easier when he had three actual rouges to put knives in the saarebas’ back whenever they focused on Fenris, and three others keeping the handler off of them with a barrage of arrows. Fenris became more of a sink for the saarebas’ attention and attacks while Eleida, Axe and Kernan delt out blows and disappeared back into the fog. It was astonishingly methodical how they pushed the saarebas and its handler, separating them and forcing them onto less favorable ground. Fenris sunk into a meditative state that he had cultivated in the decade he’d served Danarius. Distract, take the blow, protect, distract again, bring the damage onto yourself. He half expected to see his master’s gestures directing him, to hear his master’s command, but they didn’t come, and it was all so much easier without them. The Lyrium was his to draw upon, when a Sten broke ranks and tried to run to the Serabaas’ aid, Fenris simply tore his heart out, with no regard to preserving power for his master. He could see his opponent beginning to tire as he skipped in close to cut. He reached out a ghostly hand to grab the heart, but came up a little short, and tossed aside two ribs instead. The saarebas roared, radiating a blast of magic power so oppressive that it knocked Fenris clear to the ground and pulled Eleida and Axe from the shadow concealment they’d been using. The saarebas charged at Fenris, swinging one of their broken chains and discharging waves of power. For a second, Fenris thought the miscalculation might cost him his life, but the saarebas was hit by a long shot from one of the archers. The arrow struck hard in the wound that Fenris had made pulling out the ribs, and blood and viscera poured from the wound. The powerful shot stopped the Qunari cold. From the fog came Kernan’s blade, cutting the saarebas’ belly open. The guts of the saarebas spilt onto the ground with an awful wet thud. The scream was unbearable, and before Fenris could register it, he was back up on his feet, incorporeal. He closed the distance half in the fade and ended the scream with a hand through the saarebas’ chest. It was the lungs he came away with this time, but it was enough to cut the scream off, and to end the saarebas’ life before the saarebas could do so more… explosively. The clang of the metal collar was loud enough to hurt Fenris’s ears when the saarebas collapsed to the ground, dead. There was a long moment of stillness and silence. It was very odd to have a time where the battle did not require him and he could look around and get the lay of the scene. He found that there wasn’t much to see. With the saarebas dead there weren’t flashes of spells to light up the fog, so he was surrounded by white. The only thing he could see clearly was the corpse of the saarebas. Fenris had never really looked at one up close before, and everything about the body filled him with sadness. The high collar and the chains were reminiscent of his own in Minrathous. It was a comparison that Fenris knew was intended. Perhaps he was so good at killing saarebas because he understood them. He knew the way that high collar restricted you in battle, he knew the jerk of a leash, he understood the saarebas’ desperation and desire to defend their handler. The saarebas’ devotion was a reflection of something inside himself he was trying in vain to stamp out.

“Panahedan. Ebasit kata-ost, ataash varin kata,” Fenris murmured to the corpse. His Qunlat wasn’t perfect, but it was good enough to express the sentiment, “Goodbye. It has ended but there is glory in this end.” He knew it was a sentiment that might comfort him in his death, although he was unsure if it would mean the same for the saarebas.

When he pulled himself to his feet, the fog had cleared somewhat. He could see the archers turning the hapless handler into a pincushion. Fenris didn’t have to move, he simply watched as the rogues made mincemeat of the handler. When Fenris looked around, he could see all the qunari within his sight were dead. Eleida was grinning, wiping her knife on the now-dead saarebas handler, “That’s all. Time to go.” 

She was right. Their force was larger than the first raiding party Fenris had been a part of but it was no match against this whole kith of Qunari. They’d be at a massive risk if the fog dissipated too much. The three rogues gathered around Fenris, and the four of them together prepared to fight their way back out. At first, they encountered shockingly little resistance. Fenris took it as a boon, but as they continued out of the qunari camp, he began to see more and more corpses. So many, in fact, that Fenris began to get nervous. 

“Did we really kill all of these?” Kernan whispered. Eleida hushed him, but her face looked concerned. The fog was thinner and thinner as they proceeded and the evidence of the battle became more and more confusing. To Fenris’ left there was the burnt corpse of a qunari, Fenris didn’t understand how or why that corpse could be there. The manner of death seemed inconsistent with any death the Fog Warriors had come equipped to provide. 

“What’s going on?” Axe muttered, “That corpse don’t look right.” Eleida shot him a glare but she seemed to see there was something wrong. She quickened her pace. They all followed suit. Fenris squinted through the fog in front of them, unsure if he wanted it to be thicker to conceal them, or thinner so they knew what lay ahead. The evidence was not good, he saw ice and smouldering ashes in places, and even the faint remains of a glyph. There were mages somewhere, and all they had expected was the saarebas. Worrying, he looked up. That was when he saw it, and knew immediately that a thicker fog was what was needed. Just above the reach of the fog, caught fast in the hazy sky, was an acid green banner bearing the black shapes of a dragon and a serpent twisted and overlaid. 

They all seemed to notice it at once, and went deadly silent. Eleida took action first, barely a moments’ pause and she shoved a shaky hand into her gambeson, pulling out a bone white whistle. She put it to her lips and blew three short but incredibly loud notes, then two longer ones, equally loud. Fenris rounded on her, furious that she had given away their position but realized quickly that the signal had been intended for Arran when suddenly the fog was so thick that Fenris could no longer see his hand in front of his face. Someone grabbed his wrist, and he snarled before realizing it must be Eleida. She tugged him forward through the blinding white, clearly able to see or intuit something he couldn’t. He followed her, as silently as he could manage, letting her pull him until she placed his gauntleted hand on solid rock and hissed so softly in his ear that he barely felt her breath, “Climb.” 

He did as he was told, grateful for his bare feet and padded exterior for muffling the noise of his ascent. He made his way quick and quiet from the ground up with little trouble. He kept careful track of his breathing as he ascended, trying not to make too much noise. He had no idea where he was on the field and who surrounded him or how closely. The quiet he struggled to maintain was broken with an explosion somewhere off to his left and below him. There was shouting now, in Qunari and Tevene. He did not look down, he knew all he would see was white. He had always felt like the fog muffled noise somehow but the sounds were clear and loud as he climbed. He strained his ears to hear better, trying to pick out specific voices- to hear which of his comrades were still in the fray- or to hear the voice he most dreaded. A brown hand jutted down from above him, the white paint covering it chipped and flaking. Fenris grasped it firmly and allowed himself to be pulled up and onto solid ground, narrowly avoiding an explosion of ice just below his bare feet. There was definitely a mage down there somewhere- maybe even several. Or a magister. The fog was gone this high up though the expanse of the battlefield was still covered in it. The white below seemed almost solid, like you could walk out onto it like a frozen lake, but the lights coming up from beneath it betrayed that someone was down there casting. 

It was Kernan who had pulled him up, and he beckoned to Fenris to come away from the ledge and into the cover of the woods. They didn’t speak then, insistent on being silent as they slunk away from the battle. The mood was anxious. There were fewer of them than there had been and many looked worse for the wear. Fenris knew that some would rejoin later but he worried that not everyone would be accounted for. Someone in the back of the group started to ask a question, but was silenced quickly with a thump from their neighbor. 

Eleida and Arran stood a ways away, at the front of the group. They were clearly arguing silently, exchanging a flurry of hand signs. They were not the same as Tevinter army signs so Fenris only knew two or three of them. He caught a derivative of a sign for “danger,” another for “home,” a third for “conceal.” A finger was jabbed at Fenris. He came close, interpreting it as a signal to participate. Arran met his eyes, urgency blazing. Arran’s hand signs became Tevinter military hand signs. Fenris didn’t even bother to wonder where Arran had learned them. Arran signed, gesturing to himself, “Lead. Front. Hide. Quiet.” Then he pointed at Fenris, “Rear. Defend. Watch. Listen.” Fenris bowed his head and signed back, “Yes.” He nearly tacked on the sign for “Master” out of sheer force of habit, but he balled his hands into fists to prevent it and slipped to the back of the group. He couldn’t help but count the warriors in front of him. fourteen of them total. They were missing nearly a third of their number. It sent a shiver down Fenris’ spine. Eleven rebels in this group, ten left at the estate, and four of them left somewhere below. He tried to determine who was missing. It was difficult when all he could see was a line of white heads in front of him, painted or covered in linen, but he could approximate who was missing. Eleida and Arran were there, of course, Arran was the easiest to pick out, smaller by a hand’s breadth than anyone else and carrying the weight of that odd spiritual power. Eleida was easy to find as well, She and Kernan were both so covered in blood that they stood out from the crowd. Fenris assumed he must look much the same. He looked for Axe’s distinctive tall and wiry Qunari silhouette but didn’t see him. Basil or Bones was up ahead, but from behind, Fenris couldn’t tell which, but if one was there, the other was certainly missing. Kitterage was there, big for an archer and easy to pick out, her thick fingers kept an arrow close to her bowstring, and her dark eyes swept the woods vigilantly. Zella was missing, for certain, she was the only dwarf among them. Beyond that, he couldn’t be sure. 

Fenris scanned the forest looking for anything out of order. He could still hear the fighting from behind them as they walked, but there was no evidence they were being followed. Still, his hackles were up and the lyrium in his flesh prickled, hyper-aware of the waves of magic coming from the battlefield behind. The power would have to come from several mages to affect him this far away. Or a Magister. He heard the sound of footsteps from the right of the group and dashed over to the source of the noise, drawing his blade. He didn’t have to get very close to the source to see it was only Zella rejoining the group. Fenris shepherded her to the front near Arran and then took up his post at the rear again. He was torn between a desire to hear more rustling out in the forest signaling the arrival of more fog warriors, and dread at who else might be out there, following. His conflict led to nothing, however, he neither heard nor saw anyone following them. This did not result in less anxiety for him, however, and he fretted as they traveled. The conflict was so close to their camp and nobody had been expecting the Tevinter forces who, by all the information they had available, shouldn’t have been able to reach the Kith in time for the conflict. Nothing about it sat right with Fenris. The bridge they had taken out should have prevented the Tevinter army from being anywhere close to the battle. Of course, just because someone was flying Tevinter heraldry didn’t make them a part of the army itself. It could be mercenaries, or an independent group. Or a magister. Or a magister. His brain kept coming back to it. Each time it drove his heart faster and made his head swim. 

Fenris found himself wishing the march back to camp was longer. He needed time to get his head straight, he needed time to convince himself that his master was not only a step behind. Yet, the smell of cinnamon was on the air, and the trees marked subtly with white chalk that indicated the barriers around the camp were growing closer and closer. Arran waved them each in, like he was holding a gate open. Fenris was last. 

“Nobody following us?” Arran asked, intensity in the set of his eyebrows. 

“I’ve seen no one,” Fenris said, “Heard nothing out of the ordinary.”

Arran looked conflicted, “ We’re missing Basil, Pela and Axe. I think Axe is dead. He was below you on the climb up the cliff. He may have froze. I haven’t seen Pela since before Eleida warned me about the Tevinters. I think we may have lost her as well.”

Fenris nodded. He couldn’t process that information. Arran hustled him past the tree barrier. Frantically, Arran began to remove the chalk marks from the surrounding trees. He jumped to remove one barely out of his reach and turned to Fenris, “You’re tall, help me.”

He didn’t understand why they were doing this, but he helped anyway, scrubbing with a sleeve at chalk markings on a dozen trees before Arran seemed satisfied. Arran produced more chalk from his pockets, marking sigils on trees, rocks and the bare ground. He pulled a small knife out of a pocket and froze, seeming to remember Fenris was still there. Arran huffed a sheepish laugh, “I’m just, uh, reinforcing and checking the barrier. You can go get cleaned up if you want? I know the paint can get itchy.”

Fenris turned on his heel and went to wash. He took the opportunity to know as little as possible. He knew whatever the Fog Dancer did to protect the encampment was a secret he wasn’t supposed to see, but the sight of that knife had spooked him. Whatever Arran was doing, Fenris was certain now that it was some kind of magic, and the kind of magic that required a knife chilled him to his core. He shoved the thought hard to the back of his mind. He had bigger problems. He shucked the layer of whites outside the shack where they were kept. Almost everyone was washing in the river, white paint flowing downstream. He was too tired and too anxious to think of anything but getting the paint off of his skin. He refused to be ogled for his markings and didn’t remove his armor, simply dunking his head and scrubbing his face, hands and feet free of white. 

Fenris didn’t go back to his room after he had bathed, and neither, it seemed, did anyone else. The mood was dark. The Fog Warriors that had been left behind had lit a fire and prepared some food. Many of those from the raiding party were serving themselves from a pot over the open fire. Fenris served himself, and sat a ways away from the fire itself, gaze fixated on the forest. To his surprise, several people came to him while he ate. Bones clapped him on the shoulder and congratulated him on “making fast work of that oxman.” Kernan sat with him for a while, eating his own food, assuring Fenris between bites that, “They’ll be back. They know the way.” and “It just takes time.” Keadec checked in on him as well, she said less, assuring him that nothing that was happening was his fault. He didn’t believe her, but the big hand she placed over his armor between his shoulder blades was more comforting than any of the words he had heard yet. When Eleida found where he was sitting, she simply kept close. The two of them were both still in their armor. Fenris had his swords at his back and Eleida had her knives at hers. Neither of them relaxed. Arran came later as the darkness spread over the campsite. He reminded Fenris gently to eat, but didn’t touch him and didn’t stay. Fenris realized his dinner had gone cold and resigned himself to eating it anyway, staring out into the forest.

Eventually, Bones and Keadec packed away the iron pot and brought the dishes back to the kitchens. No one went to bed. The fire stayed lit. All eyes were on the forest. The atmosphere of the estate was radically different now than it had been when there were children and families about. Every face around the fire was wethered and war-beaten, and each expression was one of concern. Darkness fell and the moon came up. Some of them brought their bedrolls out by the fire, but nobody left permanently and few actually slept. As the night wore on, conversations became whispers and the group seemed to draw closer and closer to the fire and each other. Keadec was the first to see movement in the trees. She woke Arran who had been dozing in her lap. Soon everyone awake was watching, hoping it was one of their own, and not Tevinters or the Qunari. Arran whistled twice, a call sign waiting for a response. Instead of a whistle response, it was Basil’s voice that came from the woods, “Blast, Arran, I don’t know all the signals. I’ve just been inducted. It’s Basil.” 

Arran laughed out of pure shock. Kitterage, who Fenris thought had been sprawled out asleep, leapt to her feet, she ran at the opening in the trees, grabbing the now-visible Basil and lifting the shorter man up to hug him tight to her. Fenris averted his eyes away from what seemed like an intimate moment between the large human woman and the elf. Basil’s arrival signalled the start of a very early breakfast. It was only three hours past midnight, but everyone needed to hear what Basil had seen. Basil needed to eat and have his wounds cleaned. Bones took several others to help prepare food, and Gavitz the healer began to examine Basil. The elf was bleeding heavily from a cut in his side, and it was clear that his way back had been hampered by a foot that had gotten caught in a blast of frost. Fenris grimaced at that, it wouldn’t heal easily, if at all. 

Bandaged and waiting for the arrival of food, Basil filled them in on what he had seen, “We were providing cover fire for the attack on the serrabaas, so Kitterage, Zella and I, we split up, right? Take cover in different places so we can see the whole thing from different angles. I took a spot up a tree, over east a little ways. I figure I can make a good long shot at the handler if things get real out of control. I never even got the chance. As soon as I could get a shot lined up, I hear a whole mess of chatter underneath me. I’m thinking it’s some kind of Qunari scout, of course. Then I realize they’re speaking Vint! Thought I was being cautious and climbed down to have a look. I figured if it was real bad, somebody ought to be told,” He accepted a bowl of porridge from Bones, “Thanks plenty. Anyhow, it’s definitely mercenaries. A good solid team of them too, at least a company of fifteen, and totally decked out in hunting gear. Not the types you see scouting. And they’ve got mages with them, at least two.” 

Fenris froze, but he listened intently. 

“Anyhow, these mages are leading this whole production, but it’s clear they don’t know their ass from a hole in the ground. From what they’re saying, they’ve got no clue they’re even walking into a qunari encampment. Keep talking about some shite they’ve been hunting. Saying it’s been taking them in circles all across the area. So far as I can tell, they were pissing after griffons, if you take my meaning. So I figure my best course of action is to get back up that tree and give some kind of alert to Arran. But I-” He paused, looking po faced, “Well, I got caught, didn’t I? Don’t know if the mage actually even saw me, but he definitely heard sommat. And he, uh froze me pretty good.” 

Fenris couldn’t help himself, “Did you get a look at him? What did he look like?”

Basil shrugged, “Some skinny young guy with a big red crystal on his staff and a woman. She seemed like was running the show. Had dark hair, I think? And it sounded like they were hunting some kind of animal. I don’t think it was anything except a bad coincidence. Seems to me like a couple of rich shems trophy hunting. If you ask me, they’re dead. There’s no way they got out of that Qunari camp when they wandered in blind.”

Neither of those descriptions sounded like Danarius, Fenris relaxed somewhat.

“Did you see anyone else?” pressed Arran, “Pela or Axe?”

Basil shook his head, “I thought I was the only one who didn’t make it back.”

There was collective disappointment that Basil wasn’t heralding the return of the other two lost fog warriors, and Gavitz shuffled him off to be examined more thoroughly in private. Breakfast became an hours log affair as the sun rose, with different people waking up and going to bed and eating in shifts, but Fenris didn’t move. Something didn’t sit right and the temporary relaxation of knowing his master had not been the mage Basil encountered gave way once again to the anxiety about where Danarius could possibly be. 

The sun began to rise at four and a half hours past midnight. Fenris held the cold bowl of porridge uneaten, loosely grasped in an exhausted hand. Why eat? Eating wouldn’t bring their comrades back. It wouldn’t give him any idea why what had happened had happened. It wouldn’t stop Danarius from pursuing him. There was a certain weariness that had come over the last few weeks of knowing he was being hunted, and after a night without sleep it overwhelmed him. Danarius’ arrival might not come that night, but it was inevitable. He would come for Fenris eventually. All Fenris could do was try to limit the damage. He steeled himself. They couldn’t stop him from leaving to protect them. As soon as he could make himself do anything, he would walk out of the camp and leave. That was the only action he could see sparing them. As the sun rose he postponed again and again the action he knew he must take. He told himself another minute wouldn’t hurt. He could enjoy this company for just one more moment, feel at home for just a little longer. 

That was when the woods erupted into fire. An unnatural scream caterwauled from the darkness and the shadows in the flames moved unnaturally like Shades closing in. Everyone who was dozing was now awake. Arran leapt to his feet, “Arm yourselves! The barrier’s been breached!” There was a commotion as everyone not already armed scrambled for weapons and armor. Gavitz burst through the estate’s front door, running out to the crowd of fog warriors with a staff clasped nervously in both hands. Bones had found a warhammer somewhere that he held tight. The archers prepared, knocking arrows and training them on the source of the noise. Fenris had his hand on his blade. Eleida stood by him, knives drawn. From the forest’s edge, a robed silhouette became more and more clear, backlit by the flaming forest. An archer shot and the arrow ricocheted off the silhouette’s barrier. The soft laugh that came next was horribly familiar and it chilled Fenris to his bones, “Ah, there you are, my Fenris. You've kept your master waiting.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Surviving the Covid-19 epidemic by trying my hand at writing some. Open to criticism, but know that quality will be wildly inconsistent because I'm not a very experienced writer. 
> 
> I just really like Fenris and the concept of having your whole life revolve around an abusive person who just drops off the face of the earth suddenly interests me. I was also struck by Anders' comment that Fenris "Doesn't have the temperament for a slave." I like to think that Fenris *no longer* has the temperament of a slave, because he is building a version of himself that is working to be free of that.


End file.
